


widows & thieves

by thein273



Series: tragedies & time [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Dark Percy Jackson, Depression, F/M, Gen, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Medication, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Time Travel, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thein273/pseuds/thein273
Summary: Sally Jackson becomes a widow. Nothing is ever the same.~*~Aeon knows nothing and everything at once, its weak imitation of consciousness flirting with the edges of reality. Even as it senses eclipsed powers begin to rise again, it stays as it always is – apart, separate, impassive. It, more than any other, knows how fragile the now is – for, invariably, it passes, leaving behind less than a ghost until even that ceases to be of any consequence. Time does not require constancy to endure; it does not even require life.Aeon is stirred again after eons dormant, its essence shuddering at the familiar, weak earthy power that caresses it like a neglected lover. Despite its natural indifference, it allows the power to distract it from its usual disinterest.I need a favor,the power exhales into Aeon. It shudders again, this time stronger, and permits discussion.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood, Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Luke Castellan & Percy Jackson
Series: tragedies & time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602403
Comments: 95
Kudos: 148





	1. Foreword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rynna_Aurelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynna_Aurelia/gifts).



**widows & thieves  
** _part I of tragedies & time_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*****TRIGGER WARNINGS*****

Suicide. Self-harm (semi-graphic, referenced, discussed). Self-medication. Depression. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Panic Attacks. Unreliable narrator(s). Murder.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Sally Jackson becomes a widow. Nothing is ever the same._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO READ THE AUTHOR'S NAME AND PANICKED: I am not giving up on _The Scarred Hero_ now or any time soon. The first installment is just under heavy revision right now and will be posted under a new name, _The Goddess' Gambit_ , incrementally upon completion.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

No one will ever know how long I have gazed admirably at the time-travel trope stories inherent to this fandom, envied them, grieved their abandonment, and thirsted for an idea I deemed original enough to explore at length. Now, after _years_ , I have it.

This story is about as canon-compliant as a time-travel tale _can be_ if it was written by an author with no intention of ever reading _The Trials of Apollo_ past a cursory glance over the pages of _The Hidden Oracle._ In other words: If you have avoided giant character death spoilers for that series while perusing this site and the internet in general, have not yet read _The Burning Maze_ , and do not want your superpower shattered, I would not recommend continuing.

Be forewarned that this story will, inevitably, share more in common with tragedies than any “time-travel fix-its” you might find on this or any other site. I’ve plotted out most of it from here to the third installment – _hunters & lies _– and I know how I end that one, but after that, it’s still rather fuzzy. If I get enough readers _begging me_ to find a way to end it at least semi-happily, I will try to take that into consideration; likewise, I will pay attention if several of you request an unhappy, tragic ending. Please, if you read this, be ready to rinse your palette with something fluffy, optimistic, and feel-good. You’ll need it.

Also be aware: I love Grover Underwood – _starting_ at _The Battle of the Labyrinth_. I may not loathe him before that, but he kind of annoys me, so please recognize that our brave satyr is likely to not only be grossly out-of-character but significantly less likable at this point in the story.

My twelve-year-old Annabeth Chase is _rife_ with my head-canons for her. I experience no shame in admitting I might have gone overboard, and she is likewise disingenuous with her depiction in _The Lightning Thief_. I love Annabeth, but it has been pointed out to me in the past that I struggle with characterizing her.

Now to address the elephant in the room: I LOVE SALLY JACKSON, TOO! I also admit she made a grievous mistake marrying Gabriel Ugliano, however understandable her motivations behind that decision were.

Understand, guys: Everyone here seems to be in relative agreement that Gabe did not just abuse Sally, which means she stayed married to him for _years_ and _hoped_ she was the only one he dared harm. I have no doubt he manipulated her into this conclusion. I have no doubt Gabe would have faced a much stickier end much faster if Sally learned about what he did to her baby boy when she wasn’t around. Sally Jackson is a beautiful human being, an exemplary mother, and an inspiration – but she’s also human. Let her make mistakes. She’s earned it.

I would advise a keen, discerning eye while reading this. That might, admittedly, be a tall order to make of people perusing a fanfiction site in their free time; you didn’t click on this story for an exercise in higher brain function. Most of you want something fun you can read from other fans of PJO, and I understand that, so if you only engage with this as much as you do anything else you’d read on this site, then I still thank you for giving my work your time. _However_ , I took a fine-tooth comb through this. Every line is deliberate. If there’s a typo, chances are, it was _supposed_ to be there.

This story is eight chapters long. This installment is pre-written, and I will do my best to keep to a consistent, biweekly upload schedule. (The first three updates are a little irregular because of a trial period in upload schedules.) 

SALLY JACKSON BECOMES A WIDOW: January 14, 2020

GROVER UNDERWOOD LOSES A FRIEND: January 24, 2020

LUKE CASTELLAN MEETS A KINDRED SPIRIT: January 24, 2020

ANNABETH CHASE IS JEALOUS: January 27, 2020

PERCY JACKSON IS NOT AN IDIOT: January 31, 2020

APHRODITE WILL NOT BE DENIED: February 3, 2020

THE WORLD IS SAVED (…AGAIN?): February 7, 2020

NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME: February 10, 2020

The sequel, _legions & roots_, is already underway, plotted out, and will be delivered to you when it is complete and edited, the same as this one has been.

Lastly, if you enjoy this story in any way or notice ways I could improve, **please** take the time to leave a comment. It helps my platform and improves traffic, and feedback is still the lifeblood of authors.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I always pay my inspirational dues, of course, so thank you:

Rynna_Aurelia, author of _Hold Tight and Pretend It's a Plan_ , for entertaining my wild, errant story thoughts every email we exchanged. Little did you know, you were feeding me the puzzle pieces I needed to create this story

_~and~_

youngjusticewriter, author of _I scream too loud when I speak my mind._ , whose distanced prose inspired, to a significant extent, how I write this (although I promise, if you happen to read this, it's not a copy-pasted style in any way). Furthermore, the decision to plop our favorite, unlucky hero back in time _before_ the events at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was inspired by that story. I don't believe it occurs at the same point in time by any means, but God knows I would have plotted out something very different if I hadn't read that story.


	2. SALLY JACKSON BECOMES A WIDOW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Suicide, Referenced Child Abuse

SALLY JACKSON'S LIMBS STRUGGLE TO HOLD HER WEIGHT AS SHE FIGHTS TO OPEN HER FRONT DOOR, the warm summer air having expanded the latch, despite being six floors off the ground. When it finally gives way with a violent shudder that ripples through the apartment, she feels her heart stop beating in her chest, every muscle bunched as her fight or flight instinct kicks into high gear.

Nothing happens.

Sally breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing and focusing on bringing her pulse rate back under control. Gabe must have had another binge while she was working overtime in desperation to support his habit and Percy's schooling. Not for the first time, she reminds herself why she lives in fear of her own spouse instead of turning the son of a bitch into the authorities like he deserves.

"For Percy," she whispers. "Always for Percy."

She finishes locking the door behind her, still mindful to be quiet as she plods toward the kitchen to make herself a sandwich and a glass of warm milk, hoping in what she knows is vain to stave off the worst of tomorrow's lethargy with sleep now.

At least, until her shoe _squelches_ and the pleasant silence of the apartment shatters.

Sally looks down, bewildered, to find a puddle of water on the floor. At first, she thinks the cheap kitchen sink broke again, and she'll have to wake up even earlier to call the repairman in the morning. Then she realizes the water is coming from the bathroom.

She heaves a massive sigh, splashing her way to the bathroom door to check on what newest home maintenance task needs to be completed, preoccupied with how she will convince their deadbeat landlord to flip the bill for the repairs when he would rather spend the money in poker games with her disgusting husband. Those thoughts vanish without a trace when she opens the bathroom door.

The entire floor wakes to her scream.

* * *

_Sally,_

_I'm sorry you have to be one to find me like this. After everything I've already put you through, the last thing you deserfe is to find my gross body with your hairdrier ruined, but I had to do this. For you. Definitely for Percy._

_The truth is, Sally – the truth I never told you, even though I should have – is that I've been depressd as long as I can remember. I've wanted more than anything else to just die for longer than you can imagine. The alcohol nummed that. The gambling gave me a thrill I could never have found otherwise. And I got so caught up in outrunning my own pain, I didn't care if I caused yours._

_But I've beaten you and that boy for the last time. His behavioral problems are my fault, I know they are. He acts out to cope with my abuse. You work triple the length of time of any other person, all to support my adictions. Now you can focus on Percy's schooling. Things will be better for you, I promise. Everything will be better if I'm not here._

_Sincerely, your disgusting ex-husband,_

_Gabriel Ugliano_

* * *

Sally rereads the letter – the suicide note – again and again while the nice police officer asks her a series of routine questions. It doesn't make sense. The words themselves are crystal clear, almost explicit: Gabe had been depressed. Gabe had been suicidal. Gabe had killed himself.

Gabe had beat her baby boy.

" – son?" Officer Mulligan prompts. Sally tears her eyes away from the note. It was the only thing untouched by the water all over the floor, set safely on top of the porcelain toilet seat cover. "Are you okay?"

Sally nods but chooses not to speak.

Officer Mulligan nods, returning to his questionnaire. His work associates herd Sally's nosy neighbors, straining to watch as the paramedics wheel her husband – no, she has to remind herself, still too numb to everything to understand, her _late_ -husband – out of their apartment on a gurney in a shiny black, zip-up bag. The spectators whisper to each other, gossiping and hypothesizing, heedless to the widow answering the police in front of them.

Can they even be listening to this? Sally doesn't know and doesn't care.

" – were you last night between midnight and two am?" Officer Mulligan asks, and she stops seeing him as nice.

"Excuse me?" Sally backs away from him, revolted. "There's a suicide note!" She waves it in his face, certain to tickle his nose with it, just in case he's secretly blind.

Judging by the way he meets her eyes, he's not. "I realize, Mrs. – " He catches himself with what little tact he apparently possesses. "Ms. Jackson. This is just to cover all our bases, to make sure we're not missing anything."

Sally hugs herself, refusing to tremble from emotional overload. This must be the most traumatizing and humiliating moment of her entire life, simultaneously. "I was working the graveyard shift at Starbucks. I just got off a…a couple hours ago. You can call my boss if you need to."

"We'll need the address and phone number of that establishment."

Sally hums, gripping the sleeve of her blouse tightly. It had been her favorite one before tonight. She'll have to burn it now.

"What about your son? Per – "

" _Excuse me_?" If anyone in the apartment building had still been sleeping, they're not now.

"Like I said, ma'am, this is all – "

"My son is _twelve years old_ , and he goes to a _boarding school_ , so I can say for damn sure he's not the nonexistent murderer you seem intent to find, _officer_."

Officer Mulligan stutters through a hopeless apology, stricken by the face of a mama bear in action, and Sally answers his remaining questions curtly. He promises to get back to her as soon as they finish the coroner's report, then leaves.

In a daze, Sally walks back into her apartment, mops up the water, and empties an entire can of air freshener into the bathroom. It barely takes the edge off the smell.

She goes to work. She comes home. She realizes she only must work two jobs to pay for Percy's tuition now. She quits Starbucks and the thankless retail job she always tried to find ways around going to. She cleans up the apartment. She eats. She fails when she attempts to sleep.

Then, only after all of that, it dawns on her she has to tell Percy about this.

"Yes, Principal Seidel?" she says into the receiver on her landline a few minutes after she draws this conclusion. "I'm afraid I need to pull Percy out of class today."

* * *

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Guess."

"Your breath smells weird." A pause. "Wait…did you throw up?"

A sharp laugh. "Only a lot. C'mon, we've got class."

* * *

Aeon knows nothing and everything at once, its weak imitation of consciousness flirting with the edges of reality. Even as it senses eclipsed powers begin to rise again, it stays as it always is – apart, separate, impassive. It, more than any other, knows how fragile the now is – for, invariably, it passes, leaving behind less than a ghost until even that ceases to be of any consequence. Time does not require constancy to endure; it does not even require life.

Aeon is stirred again after eons dormant, its essence shuddering at the familiar, weak earthy power that caresses it like a neglected lover. Despite its natural indifference, it allows the power to distract it from its usual disinterest.

 _I need a favor_ , the power exhales into Aeon. It shudders again, this time stronger, and permits discussion.

* * *

Emil Seidel tolerates most children, distrusts some, and lives for the rest. He tries to instill the same thirst for knowledge and comfort in order he possesses in his young twin daughters. He thinks he is successful, even though his wife is filing for divorce, telling him the fire had gone out in their relationship, and she needs to move on. Her secretary position is not enough to earn her primary custody, though, he knows, and it is in this truth he finds comfort.

Boarding schools do not tolerate disobedience. As such, he gravitates toward Yancy Academy when applying for principal-ship, and gets his wish. It is in his second year as principal an application lands on his desk from one Perseus E. Jackson.

His record speaks for itself – never a higher Grade Point Average than 1.8, multiple expulsions from schools throughout New York. The boy belongs in juvenile detention after destroying a school bus with that cannon. Emil strongly considers telling the family _no_ , declining the request for a scholarship without hesitation, until he reads why they request one.

The mother married quickly when he was a toddler, and reflecting over the paperwork one more time, he determines Mr. Perseus E. Jackson must loathe his stepfather with every fiber of his being. Emil worries for the reasons why, but he lacks any evidence to support the nauseous feeling pervading his everything as he grants the boy as much additional support as the school can give him.

Perseus E. Jackson – or Percy, as Emil learns he prefers to be called – tries to explain to his principal that he struggles so much in school because of learning disabilities. Emil humors the claims at best; he supposes it likely a _few_ students struggle with cognitive impairments such as these, but he doubts it is nearly as rampant as they claim, and the boy demonstrates no special ed tendencies he can see. He denies his request for extra time completing tests and specialized classes, then impresses on young Percy that his enrollment here is precarious at best. This is a trial period. Although Emil cannot put him on probation as such, not without explicit cause, he will be watched closely by the staff as the school year progresses.

Percy deflates in front of him as he says this. Emil resists the urge to feel guilty for doing his job to the best of his ability, and the schoolboard seems to think that an exceptional ability, at that.

"We strive to foster intelligence and drive at this school, Mr. Jackson," he tells him with the warmest tones he feels comfortable giving him. He is still a father, after all. It sounds to him like that is one thing Percy has never had. "I sense a strength in you lacking in most children your age, and several adults _mine_. You can do great things. You just have to set your mind to it."

With that, he gives him his room assignment, and breathes a sigh of outrageous relief when he sees Percy strike up a friendship with Grover Underwood, a dutiful student if ever Emil saw one. His chest warms to see their new, disabled teacher, Chiron Brunner, take such a shining to the boy, and Percy back to him.

Except Percy's behavioral problems have not ended, and the only class he seems to do any good in is Mr. Brunner's Latin class. Even then, he skates by with a high-C. Another student, Nancy Bobofit, proved to be a target for his aggression, Percy shoving her in the middle of the school lunch line and almost triggering a food fight in the process. He defended the action by saying she flipped his lunch tray onto him, scalding him with hot soup.

Emil wasn't impressed with the lie, of course. Little girls did not instigate fights.

Then, one day, everything changed. Percy's grades began to steadily climb. He stopped getting into fights, and Emil feared he might cry when Percy went out of his way to talk to his teachers about help and tutoring.

It was then Emil realized Percy's claims about dyslexia and ADHD were _not_ excuses, granting him the accommodations he needed to excel. Several teachers reported to him with eyewitness statements, detailing how Nancy Bobofit became physical with him, but he only did his best to evade her, never throwing a punch of his own.

Emil expels Nancy Bobofit. He apologizes to Percy. He tells him how happy he is to see him achieving his full potential. Percy tenses when he does, then thanks him, leaving him to wonder if the poor boy is as all right as this turnaround would suggest.

He gets his answer when Sally Jackson calls to tell him she must pull her son out of class today. At his stupefied questions, she answers with dull tones that she discovered her husband's dead body the night before with his suicide note. She also asks him if there are specialized counseling resources available for Percy, because part of the note confessed to physical abuse on her late-husband's part.

Emil urgently informs her that, yes, they have splendid counselors on staff. Percy will be cleared from his classes for the rest of the day, and if she needs to pull him out of school for the foreseeable future, he understands. They can make it work, and Percy's GPA will not suffer due to this tragedy.

Emil thinks he sees something strange in Percy's expression when he invites him inside his office that day, informing him his mother will arrive shortly. No, he isn't in trouble. Emil doesn't know what quite to make of the strange, haunted quality in Percy's eyes. He reasons some part of the boy must suspect what is coming.

After all, you can only spend so long with a depressed, abusive alcoholic before you start to sense the end approaching.

Sally Jackson arrives to sweep her boy into her arms, clutching him against her chest as tightly as she can, showering him with kisses, and Emil notes how desperate Percy's own end of the hug seems to be, as though he feared his mother had died and not the man who hurt him.

Emil leaves them his office to talk, which is barely any privacy, considering the large windows offering peeks inside. Feeling filthy, he watches as a mother tries to explain an unimaginable reality to her son, who watches without true reaction. His gut drops out on him when he senses, more than _sees_ , something shift in the interaction. Percy shoots away from his loving mother as if electrocuted. The nurse cries out when she notices the water cooler start to boil, and Emil is distracted by that for long enough to miss what last words are exchanged between mother and son before the son storms out of his office with a bewildered, betrayed expression on his face.

Emil stops him. "Easy. Easy, Percy, please." It's the first time he's ever called the boy by his first name, let alone his nickname. Percy doesn't seem to notice, trying to tear away from him. "There isn't any rush on this. Take your time. Why don't you head into the city with your mother? It might – "

"No thanks, Mr. Seidel," Percy says, like he's quoting off a script. "I just want to go back to class right now."

"Your grades won't suffer because of this, Percy," he tries to promise him.

"I just want to go back to class, Mr. Seidel. Please."

"Percy – "

Suddenly, Percy rushes to the nearest trashcan and heaves. The violent retches usher in a foul stench, and Emil does not miss how Sally Jackson rushes out of his office to watch without approaching him, letting the nurse handle it. Percy still refuses to go with his mother, so Emil asks a counselor to talk to him, insisting he cannot allow him to go back to class in this condition.

"I've done more in worse conditions!" Percy wails, tearing away from the Middle Eastern woman who tries to guide him to her office in the next wing.

Emil stares at him for a while – the dilated eyes, the rapid breathing – and determines the extenuating circumstance of mental illnesses changes nothing. His stepfather's death is not a tragedy. It is a relief, because now, at least, Emil will not have to go to prison for murder.

He lets Percy go.

* * *

There is silence in the dark room, one man not sleeping as he lays in bed, staring at the ceiling with traumatic images of green smoke and death filling his mind's eye. He rolls onto his side to search, desperately, for sleep, praying to any god who will listen that they might let him have this much, if nothing else. Of course, that's the first time he hears it.

_My sources tell me you hate the gods._


	3. GROVER UNDERWOOD LOSES A FRIEND

WHEN PERCY JACKSON ASKS GROVER UNDERWOOD FOR HIS SUMMER ADDRESS, he barely stops himself from collapsing in relief before scrambling to pass over his business card, the crutches he doesn't really need complicating matters.

"And, you know, I know you love your mom and you want to see her," he babbles to him while Percy flips the business card over in his hand, a strange look in his eyes Grover doesn't catch in his excitement, "like, when school gets out? But, like, you can always come with me, back where I live, first. It's not far. And if you hate it, you can leave right away. I just think it's a really good idea for you to – "

"Okay."

" – get a change of scenery, you know? Away from the big city. And it'll give you a way not to see your stepfather for a little while longer, so – wait, what?"

Percy flinches when Grover says _stepfather_ , a tangled net of emotions even Grover struggles to interpret welling inside him. He recovers, though, physically, acting like the moment never happened, even though Grover can still feel what he does. "I'd love to come back to your place with you," he says, and it almost sounds sincere. Something about his voice doesn't sit right with Grover. He wonders if he is becoming the victim of a lie of omission. "It sounds like fun. Maybe we can spend the summer together."

* * *

Percy Jackson passes sixth grade with the highest GPA of his life – 2.83 – and Grover insists they celebrate. Isn't this the first time Percy has completed an entire school year without ending it in expulsion? He can even go back to Yancy next year if he wants.

"Not that you'll want to," he says. "I mean, I know how much you hate being apart from your mom. But, you know…it's a break from your stepdad, right?"

Percy sighs, turning to him. The subway is busy, noisy, and smelly around them. Percy meets Grover's eyes. "Yeah, about that, G-man, he's gone."

Grover blinks harshly. "Wait…what? Your…your mother divorced him? Percy's, that's great!"

"No," Percy says in this measured tone that sounds all wrong coming from a twelve-year-old. For a bizarre moment, Grover thinks he sees a flash of grey in his hair. "Gabe killed himself a few months back."

Grover feels something odd about Percy's emotions, then – something that feels too close to a lie – but he's too busy being shocked to linger on it. "Percy…oh gods, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

Percy shrugs. "Nothing to say. He's dead. And I really don't wanna stop at this dumb bakery before we go to your place. Can't we just get there already?"

Grover can understand why he wouldn't want to celebrate after finding out his abusive stepfather had committed suicide and still going to school for months afterward. He just hurries to the middle of nowhere bus stop they will meet Argos at, hoping the Mist will disguise his way too many eyeballs, at least until they _get_ to Camp Half-Blood where he can explain the whole story. Not that he's looking forward to shattering Percy's world order right after that revelation.

He will always be an awful satyr, won't he?

He's loitering around, waiting for Argos, when he smells it. His stomach plummets. The monster is close. It's powerful. And he thinks he knows which one it is.

"Percy, run," he breathes.

Percy arches his eyebrow. "I thought your dad was supposed to pick us up here?" He doesn't seem to notice the way Grover's breath starts coming in short gasps.

He throws away his crutches. Percy blinks as he grabs his arm. "No time. We have to run _right now_. Come – "

But then they hear the snarling and the huffing and the stomping. Grover whirls on the half-bull creature with a scream. "Percy, _run_!"

Percy doesn't run.

The Minotaur charges him, but he just tumbles to the side with far more grace than he should have, completely untrained. Grover stumbles back, hitting his rump in shock, and watches the dance play out in front of him. When Percy leaps onto the monster's back like a gymnast, his jaw drops. Percy snaps one of its horns off the top of its head, plunging it into its chest. It explodes into golden dust.

Percy drops the few feet from the Minotaur's shoulders when it bursts, landing with an almost resigned gracelessness. He doesn't demonstrate the faintest degree of shock over what just transpired, reaching up to shake the gold dust out of his dark locks. "So…what just happened?"

Grover sputters. "You…that…you just…it just…that just… _huh_?"

Percy rolls his eyes. "G-man, I know I'm a little slower than your average kid, but I know when something is very not-human, and that was very not-human, and it definitely had you scared out of your mind. So…?"

Grover gulps. "You're the son of a Greek god?" It's a fact phrased as a question.

"Please tell me you're joking," Percy says. Grover shakes his head. "Does this mean that one-eyed stalker of mine in kindergarten was a cyclops?"

"How are you taking this so well?"

"My unrepentant, disgusting, abusive stepfather killed himself a few months ago, Grover," he says, and there is that strange gut-twisting feeling again. "I'm done being surprised by things. So, if this is a joke, you better drop it, because it's not going to be funny."

"It's not." Grover gulps, struggling to his feet with Percy's help. "I'm a satyr."

"Is that why you walk like that?" Percy doesn't speak with a derisive tone. He nods toward Grover's abandoned crutches, thrown to the side of the road, but Grover thinks he would still be fine, even if he _was_ disabled.

Which is a stupid realization to have, of course, because until right now, Percy had no idea he was anything _but_ disabled.

Grover nods. "I was taking to a place called Camp Half-Blood. It's safe for people like you. Monsters can't get in."

Again, Percy exhibits no surprise, nodding thoughtfully. He pops out one side of his jaw like he's disinterested, shrugging. "Well, guess we better get to it, huh?" Percy lifts his arm above his head, and Grover realizes with a startled yelp that he's about to pitch the horn away.

"Wait!" Grover lunges, barely catching Percy in time. "What are you doing?"

Percy frowns. "Uh…losing the dead weight?" Something toils in his chest, too complex for a young satyr to make sense of. It feels like unease, caution, fear, but also like he is reminding himself who he is talking to, to calm down.

Perhaps, if Grover had been older, more matured, more developed, he might have seen the trapdoor underneath him in time, recognized that these are eggshells onto which he dares not tread, not with Percy, not now, but he doesn't understand. He sees Thalia Grace, lightning flashing in her electric eyes, determined to make her mark, to force her father to see her, to honor her, to _love her_.

He should have seen Percy Jackson, a boy far too tired to give a shit.

"It's your spoil of war!" Grover cries. "You _earned_ it!"

"Well, I don't want it," Percy argues, something blazing in his eyes. His gaze is the sea before the storm rocks its water – tranquil, serene, placid, bunched up in preparation to throw otherwise steady ships beneath its waves with no warning.

"But no one will believe me if you don't keep that!"

And the storm starts.

" _What_?"

Grover stutters. "I – it's just, Percy, that was the _Minotaur_. That's a super-hard monster to kill, let alone unarmed! You – "

"I just told you I don't care," Percy snaps. He tilts away from Grover. His emotions seem to guard themselves, even from the person feeling them. Grover feels his own wave of guilt wash over him, threatening to drag him under. "I…you only ever befriended me because of what I am, didn't you?"

"No!" Grover waves his hands frantically in front of his face. "All I had to do was keep an eye on you! To keep you safe! That – "

" – meant getting close to me," Percy finishes, agonized anger coursing through his words like an incoming tempest. "Being my friend. This is your job, isn't it? Convincing people like me to come with you to your…to this _camp_. And now that I've killed you an unkillable monster, you want to gloat about it. Make all the other satyrs jealous about the awesome half-blood you found, right? You'll be the most popular half-goat on the Eastern Seaboard. Is that it?"

"No!"

A large, black van drives up, gravel flying everywhere. It stops just ahead of Percy, who shakes his head at Grover, locking his jaw.

"Your 'dad' is here," he says, and climbs into the car.

It will take Grover a very long time to realize he never called Percy a half-blood. He did that on his own.

* * *

"What in _Hades_ do you think you're doing?" The tone is edged, steeped in months worth of unspoken words, of fermented resentment, of love that burned so hot, it could only blaze as hate when it died.

"Getting out." The tone is measured, resigned, too tired to coat itself in a defensive film of fear anymore. Its owner turns to the doorway.

The other laughs disbelievingly. "Bullshit. Just because – "

"You're not the hero I fell in love with," the leave-taker says. A vicious silence overtakes the room, a metronome selected to provide constancy during nights of panicked gasps ticking away on the nightstand. Eyes lock. Tears well. "I'm tired of trying to bring him back."

One walks away with a suitcase rolling behind them. One shatters. Both are never the same.


	4. LUKE CASTELLAN MEETS A KINDRED SPIRIT

LUKE CASTELLAN FEARS THE SILENCE.

He paces the base of Half-Blood Hill, shaking fingers through sandy blond hair while he struggles to control his racing heartbeat. He reaches out, not for the first time, praying to receive some answer, even a disinterested hum – _something_ to assure him he won't be alone if and when this ruse crashes down around his ears.

His mind roars with silence.

The others noticed the change. Within a handful of days, his cabin-mates concerned themselves with his health, hovering, fretting over him, insisting he needed to talk to them about what he was thinking. Annabeth Chase's desperate grey eyes brought him closest of all to confessing his mistake.

No, Luke reminds himself. It wasn't a mistake. The Olympians dug their own graves millennia ago, complacent in their supremacy and convinced of their superiority even as innocents suffered beneath them, bent and broken to their whims. He could not stand idly by while they neglected needy, unloved children, parades of kids flinching at the sudden movements of their friends, cowering before adults, clinging like drowning men to lifesavers to the first person to show them love, and then questioning their own worth when their parents refused to acknowledge them, when minor gods stepped forward to recognize their offspring, only for those same offspring to be told they weren't _important enough_ to get their own cabin, their own, self-contained family like everyone else. It was disgusting, the way the gods wasted their power, trivialized life and happiness in their never-ending pursuit of luxury and entertainment.

He clenches his fist at his side, remembering all the times Thalia despaired because her worthless sperm donor regretted siring her, because the whole world wanted her to know she shouldn't have been born. _Disgusting_ , the way a radiant, defiant girl like that could wither from neglect, the way stunning, electric blue eyes could dim with just the suggestion of inferiority, of invalidity, of wrongness.

Then she died, sacrificed herself on this very hill, all to save them. To save _him_. She received nothing except a pine tree and a tragic tale. He received nothing but a terribly laughable quest, a scar, and heaps of bitterness left to ferment in the sewers to which all the gods' rejects were relegated.

He has become a poison, he knows. While he prays to only slip into the drinks of those who deserve it, he knows he is more likely to contaminate the water supply. Part of him doesn't care. The rest wants to run.

All of him is silent.

The translucent barrier, otherwise imperceptible to the naked eye, refracts in the light just enough to be seen as someone passes through, as if reverberating around the intrusion. Luke has no choice but to look at him. His first thought is: _Damn. He has to be a son of Aphrodite._

He's young. Puberty either visited him yesterday for a brief game of tag or hasn't yet made his acquaintance, but that somehow doesn't stop him from carrying himself with more years in his stride than Luke thinks he sees Chiron trot with. For now, the best way to describe him is _pretty_ , but Luke's witnessed the sudden maturation of enough children to know that will change to _godlike and stunning_ with time.

Then Grover Underwood races fearfully up his heels, and Luke remembers his friend – if he can call him that, after everything – had been on assignment to a boarding school to rescue a potent half-blood. There goes the son of Aphrodite theory. Luke can recall mention of a mortal mother in this boy's case – one aware of his status of half-blood, hesitant to let him depart for sanctuary. Unless Aphrodite birthed a child from one of her few lesbian relationships. Such things are more common with gods like Apollo, but it would not surprise him in the slightest, not when most of her children understand the word _heterosexual_ as more a suggested lifestyle than an identity all itself.

Not that Luke can criticize. He's made out with his equal share of all genders over the years. The "no unrelated boy and girl alone in a cabin together" rule exists more to appease outdated sensibilities than regulate behavior, and Apollo campers have gotten sick of rendezvous-related injuries coming to them because horny teenagers attempted to circumvent restrictions by getting frisky in the armory or something.

Luke shakes his head out thoroughly. He'd forgotten how ridiculous his ADHD could be without something else inside his head, focusing his thoughts. He gulps. The summer solstice is right around the corner.

Good, he reminds himself. Let them rip each other apart. Give us some damn peace for a change. If only his stomach could stop toiling with unease for three seconds.

The newcomer digests the valley with a guarded, complicated expression. Luke sees a kindred spirit in his striking gaze – fierce green – no, blue – no, definitely green – and ignores the unease settling over him like a weighted blanket a few ounces too heavy, approaching him with a friendly smile.

"Hey!" he greets, dismissing his anxiety. He waves as he jogs up.

Something sudden and _violent_ shifts in the boy, his cool, unaffected demeanor recoiling like he's seen a particularly unpleasant ghost, or maybe a poltergeist. He launches so far away from Luke, he almost falls through the barrier. Grover bleats as he lunges to catch him. Something tumbles from the boy's fingers, rolling down the hill.

Luke scoops it up quickly, even as he throws up his hands and steps back. "Whoa! Easy. I didn't mean to startle you." He holds the fallen object out as a peace offering, realizing only then he holds a textured horn in his hand. Luke's eyes flare wide.

"Yeah," Grover mutters. Luke is confused to hear something like shame in his voice. The half-blood arrived, to the best of Luke's knowledge, completely unharmed. This assignment didn't go awry. Why does Grover look like he would have his tail between his legs if his lower half included one? "He killed the Minotaur."

"Whoa." Luke reassesses the boy. Something about those eyes unnerve him, especially as they seem to crash like the Long Island Sound does at high tide. He prays to any merciful deity that analogy isn't apt. He gets the impression this kid does not need more trouble in his life. "That's…nice going."

The boy frowns, relaxing, but it's hesitant. His eyes flick down to the horn, but there's nothing like protectiveness in his eyes. He looks disgusted by it, almost like he resents its very existence. So, the fight was ugly, Luke surmises. That explains why Grover looks so guilty.

Luke quirks one side of his mouth up, humming. He glances down at the horn. "You want me to make this disappear?" He glances up at the boy. "Make it so you never have to look at it again?"

Grover yelps a little, but the boy _lights up_ , a blinding smile overtaking his face. "You have no idea how much." He strikes out his hand eagerly. Luke thinks about those clichés in movies where two people on the outs reintroduce themselves to somehow start anew without the baggage. He shakes off that comparison. It's not like he knows this boy any. "I'm Percy."

Luke tucks the horn behind his back, underneath his shirt. He thinks, yet again, how orange was never his color – at least, so he tells himself to explain away the twinge of guilt he feels every time he dons the signature tee of Camp Half-Blood. "Nice to meet you, Perce – can I call you Perce?"

Percy blinks like he didn't expect that. "Uh…sure?"

"Nice to meet you, Perce. I'm Luke Castellan, son of Hermes." Luke glances at Grover briefly. "Unless you've already been claimed, you'll be staying in my cabin."

Grover shakes his head.

"Well, then, I guess that means you're one of mine." Luke beams at him. He notices the soft blush that flashes across Percy's cheeks, but it's gone so fast, he almost believes it could have been a trick of the light. He hopes so. One kid way too young for him nipping at his heels like a lovesick puppy is more than enough.

"You mind, like…showing me around? Getting me acquainted? I'm trying not to freak out too much about this, but…it's a lot."

Luke bursts out laughing. "Dude, you're handling this better than _anyone else_ I've ever met in your shoes." He loops an arm over his shoulders. "C'mon. I'll show you the ropes. Grover, you coming?"

Grover averts his eyes as Percy tenses under Luke's arm, shoulders bunched. Okay, so there's more tension there than he thought. It's not just Grover's proclivity to blame himself for everything. Someone messed up.

"Uh…I should…you know…report to…bye." Grover scurries down the hill. Percy tracks his route with his eyes.

Luke arches an eyebrow. "Uh…can I ask?"

"Nope," Percy says – too cheerfully, too vibrantly, popping the _p_ with over-enthusiasm that feels disingenuous in Luke's soul. He recognizes it then, the subtlest tilt to his stance, so that Luke's welcoming, friendly, sideways hug can't pull him too close, the slightest tension, like a wild cat bunched to pounce or run at its first opportunity.

Luke resists the urge to sigh. Another one, huh? At this point, the tragic backstories have almost gotten stale.

"Well then, Perce," Luke says, steering him down the hill. "Welcome to Camp Half-Blood."

~*~

Luke is partway through feeding Percy the obligatory crap about Apollo being the chief culprits behind pranks at camp, encouraging him to lean into Eleven's advanced knack for smelling mischief in the air, when he starts wondering if he's lost his touch, because Percy is looking at him with a bemused expression, almost like he's endeared by how hard Luke is trying to fool him, and it insults him on a deeper level than he knows how to deal with.

Of course, then Annabeth materializes – literally, _materializes_ , as she pulls off her mother's Yankee's cap – in front of him with the glare of a girl who just woke up to find her cabin covered in plastic spiders.

Cabin. Plastic spiders. Oh shit.

"Hi, Annie!" Luke fights to keep the hysteria out of his voice. Half his size, almost half his age, and armed with a knife a quarter the length of his sword, Annabeth Chase is still the most fearsome camper _there_.

And not just because Luke can't shake the crippling anxiety she'll be the first to figure him out.

Annabeth crosses her arms over her chest. Luke hazards a peak toward what he hopes won't be utter and complete pandemonium. He finds something worse: Annabeth's small cluster of easily identifiable siblings – all of them blond and silver-eyed – huddled together as far away from Cabin Six's grey exterior and unremarkable white curtains as they can get themselves, clutching blankets around their shoulders with faraway looks in their otherwise shrewd gazes. Luke gulps.

"Who did this?" Annabeth demands.

"I…have no idea – "

" _Luke Castellan_ , this _reeks_ of 'underthought Hermes scheme,'" she informs him. "Please do not delude yourself into believing for _three seconds_ you can convince me different."

Percy suddenly tears away from Luke, forcing him to remember the newbie previously tucked under his arm instead of the incensed and compact bundle of terror tapping her foot in front of him. He sputters a little, turning to ask him if he's okay. Percy hasn't struck him as shy, but maybe the additional people flipped his "too much social contact for a single day" switch.

Fortunately, Percy appears unperturbed by any overwhelm. He _does_ look ready to kill someone when he lays eyes on the frightened Athena campers, forging over without a second's hesitation. His entire demeanor softens as he crouches in front of Annabeth's youngest sibling – Darla, eight-years-old and as headstrong as her big sister had been at her age.

Annabeth's body language both gets smaller and bigger as she moves to chase him off with threats to bodily harm, but Luke plays a hunch, catching her arm gently. She flies back, stammering disbelievingly. "Wha – what do you – I need to – "

"Trust me," Luke finds himself saying, but what he really means is _trust him_ , and he doesn't have the faintest idea why she should.

Percy exchanges a few words with Darla, relaxed and friendly the whole while. No one is surprised when the spitfire of a child tries to bluster, puffing out her chest even when she can't take a complete breath. Percy persists, though, saying _something_ that makes her eyes brighten with a familiar light – i.e. every time they happened across a library on their way to Camp Half-Blood with seven-year-old Annabeth delighting in every nugget of new information she could get her tiny hands on, dyslexia and monsters be damned.

With that, Percy pushes up and heads inside the abandoned cabin. It takes every scrap of additional upper-arm strength earned from sword-fighting for Luke to stop Annabeth from lunging at Percy when he reappears, nails raking, but then she spots the burlap sack of goodies in his hands.

Dumbfounded, Luke and Annabeth watch Percy pass out goodies to the distraught arachnophobes. Books for a couple of them, the ones less affected by dyslexia, mathematical worksheets for others, Rubik's cubes and other handheld puzzles for the rest. Luke recognizes a few magazines filled with Sudoku matrices in that cluster, as well. No sooner do the shaken Athenian children receive these than they forget their anxiety in something predictable and concrete.

Annabeth gapes in disbelief at the scene. Luke just scoffs, figuring that, _yes_ , Percy must be a son of Aphrodite. No other way he pulled that off so naturally. His claiming is sure to trigger a panic with them, but Luke is confident Silena will make him feel at home.

Percy turns back to them, his easygoing, friendly attitude dissolving the second he lays eyes on Annabeth. To continue with the sea analogy, if his relaxed expression is like the waves crashing over the rocks at high-tide, otherwise calm, then this…this must be the painfully serene moment before a tsunami hits, when the shoreline retreats and there's the briefest moment of peace before disaster strikes.

Disaster never comes, though, and Percy wipes away the expression with arguable success. Luke knows all too well what it looks like when someone shoves heaps of mental anguish behind a metaphysical vault door – preferably airtight – to postpone the inevitable breakdown. You can't do that exact same thing with your face almost every day without learning which muscles indicate something deeper simmering beneath the surface.

Except Luke chances a glance at Annabeth, who looks both ignorant to Percy's unease and unfamiliar with the boy himself. Her walls fly up with reinforced steel supports, but Percy isn't deterred, reaching into the burlap sack to hold out _A Complete History of Mediterranean Architecture_ – Annabeth's favorite book in the entire world.

Her eyes suddenly become too wide for her face.

"Darla told me you liked buildings," Percy says, shrugging sheepishly. Luke wonders if _sheepish_ might be a disguise for something else. "I grabbed the first building-themed thing I saw in there. Sorry if it's – "

"Is this an angle?" Annabeth demands.

Percy falters, bristling. His jaw locks. His eyes flash. Luke worries the tsunami might yet be on its way. " _Angle_? I mean…" He looks down at his arm, partially bent. "What is this? A…forty-five-degree angle?"

"Who taught you geometry?" Annabeth demands. "That's _obviously_ one-hundred-and-ten."

"Now don't you think that's aiming a little high?" Percy snipes back. "Or are you talking about your IQ?"

Luke jumps in before he has to hide Percy's dead body, snatching Annabeth back while she howls in rage, thrashing and clawing at the air in an attempt to get at Percy's face. "Whoa there, Annie! Let's not murder the new camper before he even finishes his first night here!"

" _IQ_?" Annabeth screeches. "I'm going to _kill you_!"

"I wouldn't advise that." Percy's smile broadens. "Pretty sure a clean murder takes at least fifty points higher than that." That's the exact moment his cocky smirk dissolves from his features, not that Annabeth notices, too consumed by her rage.

Luke dispenses with the niceties, tossing Annabeth back and getting between her and Percy. He still has to keep her at arm's length – not an easy feat. "Okay! Okay, Annie, Percy _just_ found out he's a half-blood. He was attacked by his first monster. He's tired. He's cranky. And he still went out of his way to comfort your siblings. So while insulting your intelligence was maybe not the wisest course of action he could have taken" – even if Luke is wrong about his mother being Aphrodite, he thinks he can safely rule out Athena as a possible godly parent now – "you _accusing him of having an ulterior motive_ was _very_ not cool!"

Annabeth relents, fuming heavily. She flexes her hand open and closed at her side. "Don't ever cross me again," she warns, pointing at him threateningly. Percy doesn't even bat an eye, further evidence in the _absolutely not secretly Annabeth's brother_ column. She snatches her book away from him, clutching it to her chest. "And if I find out you played any tricks on my siblings, I will _end you_."

Annabeth storms away before she can see Percy's expression crumple. Luke doesn't have a sea analogy for that shine, but he's sure one exists. Luke turns to his charge to lecture him on proper survival instinct when - because the day hadn't been crazy enough yet - a stocky teenager with a red bandanna tied around her massive head steps forward with half her cabin of mean-spirited flunkies pulling up her flank.

"Lookie here!" Clarisse la Rue calls, overdone bravado rubbing against Luke's last nerve before she's even hit four whole syllables. "We've got ourselves a newbie!"

Percy jumps a little, whirling on her with a natural defensive stance. Okay, so maybe he's a son of Ares? Luke dismisses that thought with a harsh shudder, refusing to think about that particular god – _ever. Again_.

He slots himself between Clarisse's goons and Percy, feeling a disproportionate amount of protectiveness swell inside him when she tries to lunge at him. Luke recognizes with perfect clarity how dangerous this is – five years, keeping everyone except his little sister at an emotional arm's length, and already he would risk an inter-cabin war to protect this kid?

The silence must be driving him crazy, he decides.

"Percy needs food, rest, and some downtime, Clarisse," Luke says firmly. "He doesn't need your bullshit 'initiation' practices."

"Oh!" Clarisse turns to her rabble. "I see how it is. _Prissy_ needs his big, strong Lukey-bear to protect him. Must be a real wimp."

Luke can feel Percy restraining his temper behind him, fuming without words. He knows he needs to quell these fires before they consume the entire camp.

"I promise, Clarisse, I will _delightfully_ watch Percy kick your ass. _Later_." Okay, where did that come from? Luke blinks at himself, and for a second, Clarisse is taller, covered in multicolored tattoos, in a football jersey with a university ring on her left hand. There are several more beads on her leather necklace. He blinks again and determines this is definitely the precursor to a nervous breakdown.

Luke's confusion lasts too long, though, and he snaps out of it rudely when Clarisse pushes past him with blood in her eye. Too late, Luke can see something is on the cusp of going horrifically wrong when Percy's eyes flash – not with alarm, not with fear, but with something far more dangerous – but it's too late, Clarisse snatching him into a headlock before Luke can interfere.

"Clar – !"

Percy twists around frantically in her grasp, flailing helplessly as she drags him toward the communal toilets. People have gathered to spectate now, and Luke struggles to think of a way to get Percy out of this before something bad happens the way the twist in Luke's gut insists it will soon enough.

Percy plants one foot a ways ahead of himself then so Clarisse can't unbalance him any more dragging him along, using his small size to his advantage to pry Clarisse's arm away from his neck just enough to twist and land a solid hit to her solar plexus. Clarisse barks from the sudden out-flux of air, doubling forward. Percy tears away from her before the onlookers can even cry out in alarm. Clarisse hits a knee.

"Cream the punk!" she calls to her siblings.

They descend on him like vultures, and Percy's frenzied expression intensifies before they have him surrounded. Before they can do anything, though, there's the sound of an explosion overhead, a brief light-show bursting overhead as a familiar centaur gallops into the middle of the makeshift arena.

"Enough!" Chiron's voice thrums with authority and disappointment. The Ares campers recoil instantly, overcome by waves of shame, and Luke feels his own breed contort in his stomach. Seriously, that must be one of Chiron's magic abilities. "What is the meaning of this? Clarisse?"

"P – " Clarisse coughs, pushing up. "Punk hit me!"

"Clarisse grabbed him, sir," Luke interjects before anyone can make Percy out to be the aggressor in this situation. "He defended himself. He _just_ got out of a bad fight. He still had adrenaline in his system. It's not his fault he panicked."

Chiron looks at Clarisse sternly, who wilts. "Dish duty, two weeks, all of you. We'll discuss your cabin's other privileges later."

Clarisse perks up. "What? But Capture – "

"I _strongly_ doubt Cabin Five will still lead the Red Team after _this_ ," Chiron hisses. "You just assaulted a new camper with intent to do _very real harm_. I'm shocked I have to tell you how reprehensible that is."

"No!" Clarisse cries. "Chiron, I have to – "

" _Move along_ , Clar – "

"Wait." Chiron turns to Percy then, who's ashen as he steps forward. His hands tremble like little earthquakes at his sides. His every muscle remains bunched, like he's trying to convince his body to catch up with his mind on the level of danger. Or maybe it's the other way around. "These guys are idiots. They're obnoxious, but I'm not mad enough to get them in trouble. They're not worth the time."

Clarisse and the others bristle defensively, but they restrain themselves from going after him again, especially in front of Chiron. Luke feels a rush of pride in his chest. Someone must have taught Percy how to deal with rowdy Ares kids, he thinks.

Chiron hesitates. "Percy, are you sure? You – "

"I'm fine, C – centaur," he says, and Luke scowls. That was _far_ too plastic. Why would he hide knowing Chiron? Do they have some sort of deal? Judging by the way Chiron's face twists into a confused frown, that isn't the case. "Sir. Sorry. You…the horse half is throwing me off, and – do I know you?"

Is Luke crazy, or is Percy trying to cover his ass?

Probably crazy.

"Yes, child," Chiron tells him. He glances around. "All of you, back to your activities! That's enough excitement for today. Clarisse, Blair, Andy, Hilda, I do believe you're supposed to be at the climbing wall right now, are you not?"

The four Ares girls glower at Percy as they storm away. Luke chews his lip. That fight is far from finished, he knows, but at least the drama is done – for now. Until World War III breaks out.

Luke wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. He reaches into the recesses of his mind with a fading hope to hear something answer back. There's nothing.

Percy flinches suddenly, holding the side of his head. His breath stutters past his lips while he struggles to calm down, and Luke resists the urge to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. Something tells him that won't help anything.

"Percy?" Percy starts, snapping his head up to look at Chiron. "Easy, child. You've been through a lot, I imagine. I wish someone had told me you'd arrived. We should converse somewhere private."

Luke bites his lip. Why _hadn't_ he taken Percy straight to the Big House? That is the protocol for new half-bloods – escort them to at least the porch, where Chiron can explain their new world order in an easy, digestible way. Percy deserves to be eased into things as much as anyone else, but Luke denied him it. He tries to tell himself it was because Percy already seems so unaffected by the mythological world, taking it all in stride, but he knows better.

Because once Chiron gets his hooves on someone, they buy into that same, obnoxious rhetoric about how the gods are great and should be respected and admired, blah, blah, blah, _blah_. Luke feels a profound connection to Percy even now, one he cannot explain no matter how hard he tries. It's like something links them. It's scary, but it's also more exhilarating than Luke could have imagined.

Percy _gets it_. He knows he does, and if he plays his cards right…maybe he won't be alone when he leaves.

He shakes his head out. _No. Focus. You haven't received a new order in weeks. Let's not count our chickens before the eggs are even laid._

"Can I come with?" Luke blurts. Okay, _not_ what he meant to do. What is _wrong with him today_?

Chiron opens his mouth to turn him down, but Percy speaks before he can. "Please." To Luke's bizarre satisfaction, Percy looks as surprised with _himself_ as Luke is by the strange way something in his gut compels him.

Chiron frowns. "I…well, I suppose that's all right." He turns to Percy. "First, though, do you recognize me?"

"Well, yeah, I just – " Percy falters so naturally, Luke almost believes it. " _Mr. Brunner_?"

Chiron smiles. "Yes, child. Please, follow me. There's much to tell you."

~*~

Luke watches Chiron explain their world to Percy, a multitude of disingenuous reactions playing across his face. More than once, Chiron says something – "Hermes, being the god of travelers, offers his cabin to anyone without somewhere else to go. If you are claimed, you will then move into your own cabin, most likely." "So, you were the one to comfort Cabin Six? I'm sure they're grateful. Athena, their mother, cursed a prideful woman named Arachne into a spider. They're terrified of them, and Luke's siblings don't understand the immensity of their pranks." – that makes Percy stare off into the distance with a faraway expression, haunted and toiling in memories it takes several moments to pull him out of.

Moreover, Luke thinks his interactions with a tormented immortal inside his mind have taken their toll, because he'll turn to Chiron and look back at Percy and see something like a grey streak in his hair or a battered, streaky face or a strange tattoo on his left forearm, with letters and stripes and was that a trident? But then he'll do a hard double take, look at him again, and he's back to a normal, young boy, listening intently to his teacher while he tells him about a secret world he's always been a part of without his knowledge.

Something is _wrong_. Luke can sense it in his soul. It sets his fingers to tapping, his knee to jumping, and his teeth to scraping his lower lip raw until he can taste blood. It has something to do with the weird silence roaring inside his mind, he knows, his aloneness with his own ugly thoughts and anxieties.

But he can't say that, because if he does, it's all over. He doesn't need an ancient voice inside his head to remind him how stupid that would be.

Then Luke is escorting Percy to his cabin. "I know you're…pretty shaken, from Clarisse going after you like that. Cabin Eleven is _packed_. You'll be sleeping on the floor. If you aren't up to that – "

"Packed?" Percy asks, a funny quality to his voice Luke scowls at, vague suspicions growing when Percy turns to him in a mimicry of pleasant surprise. Luke wonders if Grover noticed anything off about his emotions. He resolves to ask. "So, you guys must get new half-bloods, like, _all_ the time, right? Or does Hermes just have, like, fifty kids?"

Just like that, Luke forgets his suspicions in favor of intense, foul bitterness that washes over his tongue like he just drank sewage water. Percy's expression morphs into one of intense concern when Luke's entire being tenses and radiates anger.

"No," he manages to say without hauling off on an immediate crusade to tear Olympus apart, even if he entertains the fantasy inside his mind. "No to both. Most half-bloods never make it here – too many monsters, not enough protectors, and our best way to find them is to place satyrs in schools to sniff them out before monsters can, except most of us are runaways. We don't _go_ to school."

"Shit," Percy summarizes succinctly. "Ah, fuck. And what are the gods doing?"

Luke snorts on a laugh so loud and so bitter, it sounds more like a choked bark. "Absolutely fucking nothing."

That's when Luke sees it – the reason for his draw to Percy, why he spotted a kindred spirit the second he passed through the barrier. The hard set of his jaw, the dagger-like quality of his intense eyes - an expression with a familiar, passionate anger undeterred by the obnoxious, pro-Olympian rhetoric spoon-fed to disgruntled children to strip them of their right to be upset and brainwash them into blind gratitude, no matter how undeserving its recipients might be.

Luke's soul swells with an overwhelming sense of _hope_ , and he wonders if he'll have to be as alone as he thought he would be when he leaves Camp Half-Blood.

"And you don't have a lot of siblings?" Percy's tone is thin, edged in that it's too stiff to flex if you drag your finger across the side and too fine not to slice your pad almost to the bone.

Luke feels the urge to beam, despite the gravity of the conversation. His heart thunders against his ribs. _Kronos_ , he says into his mind. _I found one._ "Oh, Hermes has his fair share of affairs," Luke tells him. "Being one of the few unmarried Olympians, it frees him up to fuck everyone he sees walking down the street and immediately ditch whatever kids are born."

"But that's not why your cabin is overfull," Percy infers, all question stripped from his tone. "Is it?" The last rings out almost like a clarification, less like a true _query_.

Luke shakes his head and motions around at the horseshoe of cabins surrounding them, each one styled especially to the corresponding gods' aesthetic. "You took Greek mythology with Chiron at your school, right?" Percy nods. "Then you know there are a whole lot more than _twelve gods_ in the entire pantheon."

Percy holds up a hand. "Wait. _Wait a fucking second_. Are you trying to tell me children of minor gods _don't get their own places like everyone else_?"

Luke smirks bitterly. "Most of them don't even bother claiming their kids unless it's to help them understand powers they have," he says. "Like Hecate? She usually claims her children because they _need_ to know their mother is the goddess of magic. They feel like freaks otherwise."

Luke flashes back to Lou Ellen Blackstone, crammed into the back of Cabin Eleven with a permanent glare etched into her face, one that only seems to relax when Luke takes her for a walk away from the overcrowded, single-room communal dorm in which they all lived.

Percy shakes his head, averting his eyes from Luke to stare off into the distance. Luke follows his gaze, and for the strangest, most bewildering moment, he swears he sees two perpendicular rows of cabins materialize at the end of the horseshoe, forming an omega shape. He blinks, settling back in alarm.

"Maybe that will change soon," Percy says, and Luke is strangely reminded of the myth about the sibyl Cassandra, cursed to predict the future with no one ever believing her. He shakes his head, pressing two fingers into his temple. Oh, yeah, he was definitely starting to lose it.

"Not likely," Luke tells him, regret lining his words. "This is the way it's been since the gods took power three thousand years ago."

Percy shrugs. "You never know." He looks at him, a funny smile curving up the corners of his lips. Luke's soul trills, just a little – not like it did with Thalia, where he knew the only thing he needed to be happy was her companionship, but like he's finally found someone who can understand _him_ , who doesn't need lectured on why the world is an unfair battleground without anarchist assistance. "Someone might just come around soon to change that."

And Luke wonders, with something tight in his chest he can't name, if that person might be the mysterious, unreadable boy standing in front of him, whose eyes reflect more years than his body has maturity for.


	5. ANNABETH CHASE IS JEALOUS

IF ANNABETH CHASE IS HONEST WITH HERSELF, her inspired Athenian plan to get Percy Jackson's ass kicked is rooted in a craving for revenge – and an _intense_ , very petty jealousy.

After she exercised a _rational amount of distrust_ – not paranoia, no matter what her siblings call it – toward the too-friendly newcomer encroaching on her family, Luke wasted nary a second leaping to his aid, unhesitant and stern with her in a way that simultaneously made her want to retreat into a shameful ball and scream. Then he defended Jackson when Clarisse and her goons appeared for their obligatory bout of being preening Neanderthals campaigning for Most Obnoxious and Talked About Clique in Camp – something, Annabeth should note, he _never does_ , preferring to let the unavoidable conflict play out sooner rather than later without giving himself a headache in the process.

And now? Now, Percy Jackson, unclaimed resident of Cabin Eleven, and Luke Castellan, son of Hermes, are more like _PercyandLuke_.

And it _pisses her off_.

Annabeth avoids depending on such coarse language to describe her emotions, yet that seems the best description for the unequivocal ball of rage swelling inside her every time she glimpses that smug, undeserving little…little…little _ignoramus_ horsing around with _her Luke_ like they'd grown up together. He isn't even that smart! He certainly isn't attractive unless you were into windswept, silky black locks, strong, symmetrical facial features, and a ready, bounding sense of humor capable of entertaining both the cynical and the unencumbered alike.

So, like – _ugly_.

Poor Luke must be starved for intellectual stimulation (although if she paused for an unbiased assessment of his twinkling eyes, better-rested appearance, and constant laughter when hanging out with _Perseus Jackson_ – what a _stupid name_ – she might determine such things in apparent abundance with his new friend), yet they saddle him with this horrific simpleton of a _child_. Clearly, he feels obligated to keep the complete idiot company for some reason. Maybe they have similar pasts, or Jackson is just another unfortunate circumstance, come to Camp Half-Blood from a toxic, unsafe household like so many others.

Annabeth doesn't care if he was the subject of governmental experimentation, though. _No one monopolizes Luke_.

Of course, as her siblings attempt to explain, Luke _isn't_ monopolized. His regular attempts to integrate Percy into their dynamic are sincere, birthed by the purest intentions to knit together the two people left in his life most important to him, but she could care less for any of that. Luke is _hers_. Luke has _always_ been hers. Luke was the person to stroke her hair and sing her sleep in the weeks following Thalia's death, who refused to abide by camp rules when Chiron attempted to explain that Annabeth had her siblings and Luke had his, and they needed to stay in their respective cabins come lights out. Sure, he had always been compassionate and empathetic to the parades of half-bloods to pass through his cabin, many of which never left, but none of them ever compared to Annabeth, because _Luke is hers_ and _she is his_ and that's just how it has always worked and that's how _it will work again_.

But first – Percy Jackson has to _go_.

"Overwhelmed?" Jackson asks her once during a screaming match that breaks out during what was supposed to be a friendly canoe race while she presses the heels of her palms to her ears, forcing deep, measured breaths that stutter past her lips even with perfect form while her shoulders shake and her eyes burn. "Here. Throw on your cap. If anyone asks, you had bad fish at lunch."

The fact she does exactly as he suggests has nothing to do with the astuteness of the suggestion itself but rather a profound desire to escape his polluted atmosphere, just in case stupidity was contagious.

"Stop obsessing," Jackson advises while Luke plays a smuggled CD of _Bon Jovi_ on an equally smuggled radio in the Athena cabin during free time, glancing over when she suddenly falls silent, furiously redrawing the same angle seven times. "The lines don't have to be perfect. If the equation won't work, then focus on something else until you can come back to it with a fresh mind."

The fact Annabeth rips up that blueprint in a fit fifteen minutes later had nothing to do with her obstinacy _not_ to do what Jackson thinks is best.

"He's probably lonely," Jackson translates to her when she vents _to Luke_ about Malcolm yelling at her that morning when she politely turned him down on playing a game of chess with him after lunch so she could catch up on her hypothetical, dream-build for a rendition of the Parthenon, to be located in the heart of Camp Half-Blood. "I mean, he's one of the few kids here with a family back home, right? Seems to me like he loves you guys a lot and doesn't want to leave, but your whole cabin can get a little starved for emotional intimacy."

" _Starved for emotional intimacy_?" Annabeth roars at him. "I will have you know I am _fine_ when it comes to _emotional intimacy_ , Invasive Aberration" – far from her best nickname, but at least Jackson tenses like she slapped him, so it would do in a pinch – "and you don't even _belong here_ , so why don't you let Luke and me talk in peace, hmm?"

"Annabeth," Luke cuts in sternly. "I don't really know Malcolm that well. Not enough to give you any advice on this, so _maybe_ you should hear Percy out."

"He doesn't even know us!" Annabeth screams, slamming the Ancient Greek translation of Sophocles' plays closed as she shoves to her feet. "Besides, he's too stupid to even try to keep up with us. I don't know why you spend so much time with him."

Luke pushes to his feet. "That's enough, Annabeth. Percy _isn't_ stupid. He's actually pretty damn intelligent if you give him a chance, so – "

"It's fine," Jackson says, standing in his own right. "You have your family. I'm just an invader. I'll get out of your hair."

"Percy – " Luke tries to protest while Annabeth _doesn't_ feel a stab of guilt ignite like a forest fire in her chest at the look in Jackson's eyes.

"It's fine, Luke, really," Jackson tells him, a blinding smile on his face. "I'm used to it."

Annabeth wonders why she gets the feeling he less meant _in general_ than _Annabeth always does this_ as he walks out, but that's ridiculous. She avoids him as much as circumstances will allow and ignores him to the best of her ability when Luke brings him around to their hangouts. She hardly knows him.

The door clicks shut behind him, and Annabeth wishes she could literally eat her words.

* * *

Guilt gnaws at her until she relents during Capture the Flag, sprinting over to Jackson's position at the creek, where she knows Clarisse brought her posse of unevolved idiots to harass and beat on him for fighting back the first time they assaulted him.

Not that Annabeth cares, mind you. Jackson's welfare is _not_ her concern. She just knows Chiron will be upset if he finds out she sabotaged Jackson to get hurt, and his opinion means almost as much to her as Luke's does.

Not that Luke's positive opinion of Jackson changes _her_ opinion of him whatsoever.

When she skids to a stop in the clearing, though, she doesn't find Jackson in critical condition and desperate need of the infirmary. Instead, she finds two of Clarisse's siblings laid out on the underbrush, dents in their helmets, the other three watching him with newfound wariness as Clarisse charges him with a frenzied battle cry, spear arcing with electricity that Jackson just spins out of the way of and kicks her face-down into the creek. Clarisse cries out and twitches from the water's conductivity, but Jackson just turns to the last of her posse, unaffected and undaunted, even though he's ankle-deep in the creek.

 _Di immortales_ , Annabeth thinks with an internalized groan, noting the several slashes through his armor and shirt, tinged with the tiniest amount of blood, even though no wound is visible on the exposed skin. _Why couldn't it be Zeus?_

Cheers ring throughout the forest, and Annabeth whirls to see Luke sprint across No Man's Land with the red team's crimson, boar-embroidered banner held high above his head, leaping into friendly territory as the emblem shimmers into a silver caduceus.

Clarisse punches the water, screaming. "A trick! It was a trick."

"Figured that out all on your own, did ya?" Jackson mocks, turning to watch Clarisse fight with her discombobulated limbs to stand, neural pathways a little overloaded from the electrocution. He scoffs, sheathing his sword as he steps forward, scooping her spear up and tossing it onto dry land so it stops channeling current through the water, offering her an expectant hand.

Clarisse spits at him. "Fuck off," she instructs him.

"No thanks," he says, rolling his eyes and hauling her to her feet. "Get out of the water before you do yourself permanent damage, will you?"

Clarisse shoves him, staggering a little. "I _swear_ , Jackson," she says. "I _will_ kill you. You don't know the enemy you just made."

Annabeth rips off her cap while Clarisse's siblings throw down their weapons, raging over the decisive loss. Luke jogs over and props the banner on his shoulder.

"Whoa," he praises. Annabeth is too stricken to bristle at the warmth in his tone. "You can sure hold your own. Nice going, Per – "

Clarisse cries out in alarm, staggering back and falling onto her rump as a brilliant flash of green light appears over Percy's head, casting him in an ethereal glow, the trident hovering above him confirming what Annabeth thinks a part of her always suspected.

After all, it explains why she hates him so damn much.

"Hail Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon," Chiron intones like he's speaking at Jackson's funeral. "Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses, Lord of the Seas."

Jackson closes his eyes as everyone, bewildered and horrified, sinks to their knees in respect for the fearsome god who sired him against oath – at least, everyone except, weirdly, Luke.

Something twists in Annabeth's gut – a prescient, intense _knowing_ that transcends logic in a way that dizzies her rationale mind – and she looks in time to watch the banner slip through Luke's fingers, crashing to the underbrush before he turns and runs. Annabeth scrambles to her feet, respect for Poseidon be damned – she is a _daughter of Athena_ , his satisfaction is not her chief concern – but to her indescribable frustration, Jackson is already sprinting after Luke, forsaking the crowd of awed, frightened people.

Chiron – and everyone else – attempts to stop him, crying out, and Annabeth wrinkles her nose into a knotted scowl, clenching her fist.

Luke. Is. _Hers_.

* * *

The multi-thousand-dollar stone statue – as nauseating in immortalized filth as it was in impermanent life – stands in the middle of a living room. The elfish mechanic admires it with equal parts awe and disgust, holding a hammer in his non-dominant hand.

"This…" The mechanic gulps. "Are you sure this is going to help you?"

The host just holds out a hand for the hammer. The mechanic hesitates, struggling to decode the shadows over his friend's face, and remembers his own, fiery grief after the last tragedy shook their foundations. He wonders if this one will put even that to shame as he forfeits the hammer.

The mechanic watches his friend reach to the side, pressing a button on his phone. "You have one saved message," a pure, electronic woman's voice rings out.

The mechanic's eyes widen and he croaks, reaching out to advise against what he now knows his friend plans to do, but then the message begins to play, a watery, choked man's voice filling the apartment with more pain than he knows how to listen to without crumbling.

"P-Percy, it's…it's Paul." A sob strangles free. "Something went wrong with the surgery. Your mother…she's gone."

Percy Jackson lets loose a scream to shake the fortifications of Olympus itself as he smashes the hammer into the statue's jaw with all his might.

* * *

"Do you understand the situation?" Chiron asks his contemplative student while Percy swirls a glass of iced tea in front of him. Worry chokes Chiron's capacity to stay committed to the fate of Olympus and he searches his impassive sea-green eyes for answers he knows Percy will not offer freely.

Percy shrugs. "I don't make Uncle Zeusie happy, _boom_ – World War III." Somehow, he does not sound too concerned with this fact. Percy throws back his entire glass of iced tea at once and slams it down on the porch table. "Better get to it then, shouldn't I?"

"Percy, wait," Chiron interjects, shifting forward in his wheelchair. "Luke lost someone dear to him years ago. Your cousin – Thalia, daughter of Zeus. He never processed his grief over her loss. His reaction to your claiming wasn't – "

"I know." Percy stretches, rolling his shoulders back. "Don't suppose I get, like, supplies for this super-dangerous quest-thing, do I?"

"Of course." Chiron rolls away from the table, angling to face Percy again now that he's moved away to the porch steps. "But first, you need a prophecy. Then, it is customary to select two companions. I suspect you will want Lu – "

"I don't." Chiron wonders, hopelessly, what became of the sarcastic, lighthearted boy he first met at Yancy Academy when he manipulated the Mist to act as his Latin teacher. Some piece of him must still live inside those lackluster, efficient eyes – at least, Chiron prays to every god that will listen it does. "How about you, like, just take volunteers? I don't know a lot of people here, so…whoever works."

Chiron sighs heavily and gestures. "In that case…"

Annabeth Chase tears her mother's Yankee's cap from her head, materializing like a mirage before crossing her arms over her chest.

Percy matches glares with her. Idly, Chiron wonders if the electrified air between them could replace the missing Master Bolt and negate the need for sending two children to their probable deaths. "Well, if it isn't the single dumbest smart person I've ever had the misfortune of making the acquaintance of," Percy deadpans, and Annabeth crushes her cap in her hand, fuming with a locked jaw. "I'm shocked you would volunteer to spend quality time with me on a deadly road trip."

"I'm not the most enthused about spending it with _you_ , of course," Annabeth begins with dangerous fires catching in her eyes, "but I've been wanting my own quest for a long time, Seaweed Brain. Athena is no fan of Poseidon, but if you're going to save the world, I'm the best person to keep you from messing it up."

Something flickers through Percy's eyes then – recognition? It disappears too quickly to risk naming. "Glad to have you along, Wi – " Percy stops, as though reconsidering what he was about to say. "Wise Ass."

"Percy," Chiron reprimands.

"It's fine," Annabeth interjects. She tucks her cap behind her back, reaching up to redo her ponytail. It frizzes and bunches up at the base, tangling, but she ignores it in favor of staring Percy down. "It's good you're not taking Luke. Quests and he don't really get along. But we still need one more person."

Percy averts his eyes, something warring in their depths like the waves crashing against each other amid a storm. Apparently, one side wins, because he says, "Doesn't Grover need, like…'redemption' or something? I could have sworn I heard him say something about pans."

"Pan," Annabeth corrects irritably. "Gods, you _must_ be stupid. The father of satyrs, Lord of the Wilderness. He went missing three thousand years ago. The Council of Elders has to approve his promotion to searcher for him to join the – well, the search."

Chiron heaves a great sigh. "Please, you two. Try to be civil."

"No promises," they say as one, then glare at each other for the accidental crime of saying the same thing at the same time as their apparent arch nemesis.

 _Children_ , Chiron thinks, and anxiously awaits the day their rivalry loses its teeth. He can already see a greater connection between the two they deny with melodramatic disdain. It will do them both good, he thinks, to brave these tribulations together – assuming they survive them.

Percy rolls his eyes and looks at Chiron. "Then I guess tell Grover he's officially the third quest person…goat…dude…thing."

" _Satyr_ ," Annabeth hisses.

Percy waves toward her. "That. What's this about a prophecy you said?"

Chiron gestures. "The attic. It…I warn you. There has not been a new Oracle of Delphi in many years. Her spirit is…trapped…within a mummy. It will not – "

"See you after my death is foretold!" Percy calls, already marching through the front door and jogging up the stairwell toward the attic.

Chiron exchanges a look with Annabeth – his gaze troubled, hers irritably bewildered. He sighs again. "Keep an eye on him, child," he says. "I worry for you all, but something about him – "

"I won't let him die, if that's what you're worried about," Annabeth says. "Chiron, he's not smart enough to…be _distraught_ or something."

"Annabeth, enough." He looks at her. "This irrational contempt of yours toward him is rooted in jealousy, not reason. What would your mother think?" A reprehensible length to go to in the name of peace, Chiron knows, but he cannot imagine much else will quell her unfounded ire.

Annabeth hesitates and shuffles from foot to foot shamefully. "I…I guess I can try to get along with him…better?"

"All I ask is that you talk to him."

Annabeth chews her lip, falling silent. Several minutes later, Percy wanders back onto the porch with a distant, fractured dullness in his eyes. Chiron's spirits sink.

"Prophecies can be misleading, Percy," he immediately reassures. "Whatever it told you might not come to pass the way you believe it will."

Percy lifts his head. Annabeth steps forward. "What did the Oracle say?"

Percy swallows. " _'You shall go west to face the god who has turned. You shall find what was stolen and see it safely returned.'_ " Percy hesitates, clenching his fists at his sides.

Annabeth glances at Chiron, then back to him. "There had to be at least two more lines than that. What…?" She gnaws on her lip. "What were they?" Chiron sees the concern wash over her, despite her insistent dislike for Percy.

He sighs and waits, watching a series of emotions play across Percy's face. " _'You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend and fail to save what matters most, in the end.'_ "

Chiron closes his eyes. For a while, no one moves or speaks. Then, finally, Annabeth straightens her back. "I'll find Grover. Tell him we're leaving."

Percy inhales and locks eyes with Chiron, unease and anxiety washing off him like it was never there. "So. Supplies?"


	6. PERCY JACKSON IS NOT AN IDIOT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Self-Harm

PERCY REFUSES TO DALLY, not with the pit of unease curdling a little more every second in his gut as he replays the prophecy in his head like a grotesque Youtube video someone set on loop as a joke, except he can't figure out the controls enough to stop it. Instead of thinking about it, he haggles the camp store for additional funds.

"I'm sorry, have you taken public transportation in your _entire life_?" he demands of the unrepentant son of Hermes behind the counter. "One hundred dollars isn't likely to get us halfway across the country, and it _definitely_ isn't gonna cover food expenses."

( _Percy knows his chances of catching a son of Hermes who doesn't want to be caught are nonexistent, but that doesn't stop him from pushing his body as hard as he can to stop Luke from doing something stupid. Luke isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to his surroundings for once, so Percy glances around and climbs to the top of the nearest cabin with more dexterity than he should have, vaulting from roof to roof until he gets far enough along to leap over the edge like every stereotypical_ Spiderman _movie filmed._

_Luke lurches to a stop, gasping. "Percy! What – why – you – the claiming!"_

_"That you – just – lost it –_ at _," Percy wheezes, doubled over while his twelve-year-old lungs burn. His legs are sure to revolt soon enough, too, if the halfhearted throbs he feels in his thighs are any indication. "So – yeah."_ )

Cecil Markowitz reclines in his seat, kicking his feet up onto the counter knowing full well his muddy, disgusting boots will chase Percy back. "Sorry," he says, preoccupying his attention with his fingernails. "That's standard fare for quests."

( _Luke backs up, shaking his head. "Percy…Percy, please, you need to stay away from me."_

_Percy picks up his head, hurt he somehow doesn't need to engineer washing over his features before he can stop or consider it. Luke hesitates. Apparently, the expression has some effect, though Percy can't tell if it's positive or negative yet. "What? But…you said we were friends." Percy stops. "Is it because…it's because of my father, isn't it?"_

_"Yes, but not the way you think." Luke spins, shoving his hand through his hair. "Percy, they're going to tell you to go on a quest." Luke faces him again. "You_ can't go. _"_ )

"And tell me," Percy drawls, lunging forward to snatch a celestial bronze dagger from inside his jacket, flipping it to examine the hilt while Cecil scrambles to take it back with nothing short of blind terror in his eyes. "The CR here is short for…Certified Renegade? It's definitely no relation to _Cecil Markowitz_ , which – unless my dyslexia is _really_ acting up again, feel free to tell me if it is – would be _CM_?"

Cecil sweats bullets as he desperately shoves two hundred dollars more into Percy's backpack, which surreptitiously found itself plopping onto his shoes while he asked the store clerk friendly, non-threatening questions about his belongings.

Much richer than he started, Percy treks out to the hill, where his fellow quest-members are already pretending not to succumb to the pressure. Considering the height of tin cans in Grover's Tupperware container, he's compulsively snacked on no fewer than fifteen in the time waiting for Percy to reemerge from the camp store alone. He flashes him an anxious smile, which Percy returns via a giant bag of flattened cans Cecil gave him on the house when he _politely_ asked for them. Grover melts in relief.

Annabeth has redone her ponytail probably more times than Grover now has tin cans. She puffs out her chest with that obstinate, _you'll-never-know-I'm-not-unaffected-by-the-knowledge-we-could-all-die-soon_ way of hers, but her blonde hair – while naturally prone to frizz after a shower – would not be that disastrous if she hadn't preoccupied her shaky hands, now clenched at her sides, with pulling out and recoiling her hair tie around its base.

Percy tosses her a detangler brush she sputters in shock upon catching.

Percy faces Chiron, adjusting his backpack higher up on his shoulder and wondering not for the first time if his teacher is paying off the forces of gravity to prevent the wheels of his Misted disguise from rolling downhill every time he sees half-bloods off on quests he pretends he doesn't pre-plan their funerals for. Next to him stands Argus. Percy can't help but be grateful his far-too-many eyes are mostly hidden underneath his chauffeur's suit.

"This is Argus," Chiron introduces, and Percy flicks his fingers in a facsimile of a wave. "He will drive you into the city and, er, well…keep an eye on things."

Percy rolls his eyes and resists the urge to call Chiron out on the pun he will pretend until the end of times he didn't do deliberately. Before he can produce a functional response, running footsteps can be heard behind them.

( _"What? I…Luke, sorry, but you've lost me."_

_"The reason for the storms," he says desperately. "For how_ weird _everyone has been acting since you got here. It…you weren't supposed to get_ involved _. I thought you were just another kid! I wanted you to be my_ brother _, not – "_

_"Luke, no offense, but we have officially graduated to 'fucking irrational.'_ What are you so freaked out about _?"_

_"Kronos wants you dead!"_ )

Percy turns, hoping he's wrong, but – nope. It's Luke, winded with a shoe box tucked under his armpit. The third line of the prophecy slams into him, settling like the sky against his chest, and he refuses to entertain the tears welling in his eyes.

( _Percy freezes, eyes widening. He ignores the headache throbbing in his temple at the name. "What…?" He lets out a sharp laugh, still winded while he backs up. He flaps a hand toward Luke, nodding and staggering around. "Oh! I get it. This is a Hermes prank."_

_"No, this is your friend telling you he framed you for a crime you didn't commit_ before he even met you. _"_ )

"Wait!" Luke skids to a stop, panting as he thrusts the shoe box at Percy. "Take this!"

( _Percy stops and looks at him, shaking his head._

_"He – in my head –_ months _, Percy. I was so angry. All those kids, it…. You have no idea how persuasive he is, how…how…. Get a ship." Luke rushes forward, clutching Percy's shoulders with frenzied eyes. Percy lurches. "You're a son of Poseidon._ Get a ship. _Get far, far,_ far _away from America. I…some third world country. Somewhere that_ definitely will never get involved in a world war _. Just – just fucking_ run _!"_

_There's a twisted laugh track in Percy's head right now that he ignores. "Luke, I can't just ru – "_

_"Yes, you can. I'll buy you time. You have to go now, because Chiron is too desperate not to harass you about the quest. You have to_ get out _. Stay here,_ go on this quest _, and you are_ dead _, Percy!"_ )

Annabeth makes a sound best approximated to a cross between a pterodactyl with strep throat and a helium balloon with performance issues deflating. "Hi, Luke."

Luke beams at her, but Percy can only stare at the offering like a personal affront. He wonders if it's possible to burst apart before anyone sees the tears doing their level best to strangle free of his eyes.

( _"You're having a nervous breakdown," Percy says. "Or – dammit, Luke! Breathe! Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. With me. Inhale…"_ )

"What's that?" Grover asks, taking the offering for Percy with a concerned glance over his friend's direction. He opens the lid of the shoe box. Inside, sure enough, were two nondescript basketball shoes with the _Nike_ symbol on their sides. Percy wonders if this would hurt less if it was _Adidas_. "Oh…cool, man. Thanks." He exchanges a bewildered expression with Percy – or tries to, because Percy can't tear his eyes away.

"Those might just save your life," Luke tells him. "Put them on, and – "

( _Luke calms down, though he still looks frenzied. There's crashing and voices from the rest of camp pursuing them. They're almost out of time. Luke looks like a deer in the headlights when he whirls. Percy spins him to face him._

_"Are you still working with him?"_

_"What?"_

_"Are you still_ working with him _?"_ )

"They sprout wings?" Percy doesn't even try to disguise the contempt in his voice. Luke seems to realize why he's upset then, his eyes widening. "Nifty."

"No!" Luke casts a fearful glance at Grover, who frowns deeply at the interaction. "They help you run three times as fast. I wouldn't give you something that goes airborne, Percy. For a son of Poseidon? That's gotta be suicide."

( _Luke shakes his head frantically. "No! I…he stopped talking to me._ Weeks ago _. I don't want to do his bidding, not anymore, not now. I don't want to hurt you."_

_"Then don't," Percy tells him, ignoring the seed of horrible doubt that roots itself deep into the charred recesses of his soul. That infernal mental laugh track will drive him crazy yet, he thinks. "Luke, if the world is about to end, then I_ have _to do this quest thing you just talked about." Luke's eyes flare wide. "But if you can tell me what I'm going up against, then we might survive. I promise, I won't tell anyone. This stays between us. No one has to know."_

_Luke stares in disbelief. "What? But – "_

_"Luke!"_

_"_ Perrrrcy _!"_

_Percy glances behind Luke's shoulder. "Tell them it's because of Thalia."_ )

"Astute assumption, Luke," Chiron calls toward him. "You should best be going."

Percy stares at the shoes, unable to shake the nauseating distrust that curdles inside his stomach at the sight of Luke's gift. He looks at Grover. "You think you can jerry-rig those to fit your hooves, man? I'm a pretty good runner, when it comes down to it."

( _Luke stops dead. "What?"_

_"Tell them you freaked because of Thalia. Just – "_

_"Luke!" Annabeth runs over, cutting in front of Percy so fast, she sends him stumbling backward, before flinging her arms around Luke's neck. "Luke, what was that? What's wrong?"_ )

Luke deflates while Grover frowns at Percy, then brightens. "I-I mean, sure! If you want me to. Try, that is. I…I mean, I wear normal shoes all the time, fitting in at schools, you know? Thanks, Percy! Thanks a lot, _Perrcy_!" The last is a cringe-worthy, overexcited bleat as he runs through the barrier.

( _Luke just shakes his head hopelessly, so Percy jumps in. "I don't know. The best I could get out of him was something about 'Thalia'? He just muttered it over and over. I think he's having a panic attack."_ )

Percy meets Luke's eyes and shakes his head. Luke averts his gaze. "Just, uh…kick some monster ass for me, 'kay?"

( _"Drew that conclusion all by yourself, did you?" Annabeth challenges derisively. "His_ real _family has him now, so you can just go away. There's a lonely, dusty cabin for you that way." She jerks her head, hugging Luke tightly again._ )

He drags himself back down the hill. Percy refuses to let himself feel guilty as Chiron holds out an engraved ballpoint pen and explains its powers, and Percy tries not to cling to it too much like a comfort object as he hurries after Annabeth and Grover.

( _Percy clenches his fist and scoffs. Some things never change, and if they do, they somehow always find a way back to normal. He walks away._ )

The world whizzes past on the way to the bus station, and Percy wonders when the trees lost their luster.

* * *

Three Furies – Alecto ("constant anger"), Megaera ("the jealous"), and Tisiphone ("the avenger of murder") – and a half-blood walk into a bus restroom.

Alecto speaks first. "You challenge our patience, _honey_. I let you live for one important reason. Fail to fulfill our bargain, and – "

"I 'fail to fulfill our bargain,' I end up your perpetual punching bag for the rest of forever. Trust me, you're no more impatient than I am. The summer solstice. Eleven days. I'm not defaulting on anything yet."

"The boy smells honest. Thievery does not become him," Megaera says, her wings fluttering beneath her old lady rags.

"Thievery doesn't."

" _Anyway_. I kinda have to get out of the bathroom before someone assumes I drowned in the toilet, so buh-bye."

"Don't fail us, honey. It would be…unfortunate…if Poseidon were to lose his only mortal heir," Alecto snarls.

"Noted."

* * *

" _What happened to you_?"

"Mother of Monsters' puppy got hungry. Can I please have some ambrosia before I die?"

"N-new rule. No more splitting up."

"It was the _St. Louis Arch_ , Grover!"

"Yeah, Grover. What better place to – _ow_ – die?"

"I heard that."

"Oh, good. And here I was, worried you were hearing impaired."

"Don't test me, Seaweed Brain."

* * *

"So you're old Seaweed's kid, huh?"

"So you get off on brain-melting unsuspecting mortals, huh?"

Annabeth kicks Percy as hard as she can under the table. The only god Annabeth might have _more_ of an instinctual dislike for than Poseidon is also one of the Olympians least liable to extend forgiveness to mouthy demigods back-talking them in a cheap Denver diner. She must admit, though – but only to herself – that Clarisse's father makes all her worst outfits look in good taste. Is the overdone "tough biker" aesthetic the best idea he has to strike fear into the heart of his enemies?

"S'good, girly," Lord Ares says to her, waving his hand. Annabeth wants to reach back in time to slap herself. _Of course,_ Ares would know if she acts violent, whether she lets it show otherwise. Gods, how stupid is she? "I don't mind a little attitude. It's a nice change from the standard brown-nosing you half-bloods love so much. Long as the kid knows who's boss at the end of the day."

Annabeth watches Percy flex his fingers against the tabletop, clenching his fist a little tighter every time they curl inward. Once, she glimpses crescent-moon indents on his palm. She swallows back a wave of fear. Percy has a temper. It doesn't take someone like Luke to spot that personality trait, and Ares is amplifying _Annabeth's_ darkest urges a hundredfold. How difficult must it be for him to restrain himself?

All it takes is one critical misstep and Percy dies, the quest fails, and Olympus rips itself apart.

A multitude of witty, suicidal comebacks seem to flash through Percy's eyes. He wants to turn to that lethal sarcasm of his, but despite what Annabeth tries to tell herself when he monopolizes Luke's time, he's _not_ stupid. One glance around the table tells him how selfish it would be to entertain those urges, but self-restraint is killing him. Annabeth's heart leaps into her throat when she realizes he's shaking.

Percy's hand drifts to the disposable napkin wrapped around their dining utensils. She frowns at it, then her eyes widen, and she chokes back a sudden wave of bile as Percy pulls out the steak knife, tightening his grasp a little at a time until he takes a sudden hit to his temper. It melts off him.

Annabeth forgets all about her appetite.

"Wait…" Percy sweeps his gaze over Ares. His eyes widen. "You're Ares, aren't you? God of war."

Ares hums. "That's right, punk. I heard you gave Clarisse a good ass-kicking the other day."

"If she didn't want to lose, she shouldn't have picked a fight."

Ares guffaws. " _Cocky_. I like it. I'd watch yourself if you make it back to that camp alive, though, Jackson. My kids don't forgive easy – and they're _not_ gracious losers." Ares lifts his wraparound sunglasses, revealing intense, swirling balls of flame in the place of his eyeballs. Grover faints. "Catch my drift?"

Percy grips the steak knife tighter. "Yeah." He tosses his head. "So, as _delighted_ I am by this visit, _Lord Ares_ , we're hungry and we're busy. If you would please – "

"Not so fast." Ares leans forward to lock eyes with Percy. "I need a favor."

Percy's smile when Ares says that reminds Annabeth of a wolf's snarl. The god of war might have eyes of scorching fire, but something in the flash of Percy's ocean-reflective irises strikes her as even more dangerous. At least, it does for the millisecond she swears she saw it, because then it's gone, and she rationalizes that it must have been a trick of a light – what twelve-year-old can rival a warmongering _immortal_ in threat?

"Sounds like a very personal problem to me," Percy tells him, flexing his finger around the steak knife. Droplets of blood fall to the pristine, white napkin, staining the fibers with delicate crimson lines. Annabeth chokes back another surge of bile with difficulty. "Meanwhile, we have Western Civilization to save, so be careful the door doesn't hit you in the ass on the way out."

Annabeth tenses, braced for the godly wrath sure to explode from the unsympathetic deity pinning her against the window.

Ares' eyes flash, miniature furnaces swelling in his frustration. "A god is giving you a chance to prove yourself, Percy Jackson," he says. "Will you prove yourself a coward?"

Percy smiles, and again, Annabeth is reminded of a wolf's snarl. "Of course not. I'll prove myself someone who _isn't gullible_."

Ares lurches in bewilderment as Percy sets down the steak knife. Annabeth glimpses the long, diagonal, too-thick laceration on his palm with an intense, involuntary gag. Percy glances up at her before squeezing the napkin into his fist, undaunted by the blood soaking it or the way the god of war stares at him in enraged disbelief. He kicks Grover under the table, who flies forward with his hands thrown up.

"Food!" he cries.

"Later, G-man," Percy tells him. "This diner's a no-go. We gotta figure out a new route out of this town."

Grover starts to answer Percy, then sees Ares and squeaks. "Lord Ares."

Percy turns to the god. "You're kinda pinning my strategist against the wall. I need you to leave now, please and thank you."

Ares sneers at him. "Poor Ol' Seaweed," he drawls. "Stuck with a loser disappointment like you for his only mortal offspring."

"If he wanted different," Percy says, pressuring Grover out into the aisle with a series of distressed bleats, Annabeth stiff as a board next to the angry immortal radiating power on the end of her booth, pleading with Percy with her eyes to _stop making it worse_ , "he should have been there to raise me."

Ares rises to his feet swiftly, freeing Annabeth in the process. She resists the urge to collapse from relief. "Mark my words, Jackson," he growls. "One day, you're going to regret spitting on the god of war."

He strides out the front door, slamming it behind him before climbing onto the back of his motorcycle, kicking it into drive and zipping down the dirt road. Meanwhile, Percy approaches the main counter, offering the waitress a small wad of cash. "Any chance we could get something to go? We're in a hurry."

* * *

"You don't trust me anymore, do you?"

She falters, halfway through buttoning down her dress shirt. She stares ahead of her into the full-length mirror sitting in the corner, and he watches with growing dread as her expression struggles not to betray the truth in his words. She finishes buttoning her shirt without answering, scooping up her briefcase on her way out the door.

"You have to answer me eventually," he tells her.

She pauses, turning her face a fraction, eyes still downcast. He wonders if she might finally talk to him, a vulnerable spark of hope igniting in his chest. Maybe they can still save what they built all those years ago. Maybe it isn't over. Maybe they can have the beautiful, fulfilling relationship they watch all their friends foster with each other.

Maybe it's not too late to keep his promise.

But then she walks out the front door, and he drowns in her silence.


	7. APHRODITE WILL NOT BE DENIED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: References to Self-Harm, Overindulgent Alcohol Consumption

GROVER ITCHES TO ASK, Percy can tell. He eyes him while he winds gauze around his palm with The Expression – the one that says _you can't hide how you feel from an empath, even if you think you can_. The rifts in their relationship must be the only thing keeping him from badgering him with emotional concern, fretting over his mental health like it's the only important question in this entire mess.

They board a Greyhound, bound from Denver, Colorado to Los Angeles, California. No one talks about the conversation with Ares, although Percy can feel his companions watch him with unease and confusion. They may as well be projecting their thoughts into his mind.

 _How could he pass up that opportunity?_ Annabeth wonders, grey eyes churning like miniature storms with intensity and incomprehension. She tries to dissect him with her gaze. He flashes back to a biology lecture about DNA polymerase unzipping molecules to copy them and his skin squirms as he pictures his body splitting in half while his distrustful companion distills all his objectionable qualities into one copy, leaving only the tolerable parts in the one she doesn't chuck out the window.

 _Does he even care if Ares kills us?_ Grover thinks in fear. His compassionate nature wars with his self-preservation instinct in his eyes, morals clashing in desperation to predict Percy's next reckless maneuver.

 _Am I making anything better?_ Percy asks himself while he watches desert blur past, gauze stained red around his palm and in need of an imminent re-bandaging, even if he intends to ignore it as long as the world lets him. Grover still wants him to tap into their supplies of ambrosia to mend the wound – "It's your sword arm," he protests, unaware how easy it is for him to fight left-handed. "You can't keep an injury like that. If we get into another fight, you won't be able to defend yourself." – but Percy remains adamant that depleting their valuable, exhaustible resources for a minor cut is stupid.

Except Percy can't stop himself from flexing his hand, fixating at the way the sides of the cut stretch apart and retract together again. The sting works wonders on his rapid heartbeat, bringing it under control when the walls of the bus feel like they're closing in. This isn't the best way to cope, he knows. That's what he would tell someone else if he caught them doing this.

But he's alone with his thoughts, his pulse isn't staging a mutiny, and he almost feels something like relaxation wash over him like a waterfall.

Percy hears a sloppy snore next to him. He glances over to see Grover fast asleep in the next seat and stifles a quiet laugh. Torn momentarily from his reverie, he scans the bus to see most everyone earning themselves profound muscle soreness from reclining in unnatural positions to sleep. One little boy tries to stave off exhaustion with a gaming system casting garish light over his deep tan but judging by the way his eyelids droop a little longer every time he blinks, it isn't working well.

Percy sighs, uncoiling his taut muscles against his seat, which feels almost ergonomic against his battered body. Wait. No. Is that the right word? It means comfort, but it might have a specific definition he's missing, and his thoughts are growing sluggish, so maybe now isn't the time to agonize over if a daughter of Athena he staunchly insists to his aching heart does _not_ matter to him would approve of his word choice.

Grover snorts fitfully next to him. Percy jumps out of his skin, injured hand diving into his right pocket to grab Riptide, but it's just Annabeth, clumsily maneuvering Grover over her shoulders for some reason. Percy pulls a face, too bewildered by her determination to haul Grover's deadweight out of his seat. She lacks only urgency, staggering around with her jaw set and her eyes firm like steel.

After a few minutes of this, Percy decides it appropriate to ask the natural thing. "What the ever-loving fuck are you doing?"

Annabeth graces that with an irritated eye flick – not an eye _roll_ , just a disinterested flick of her gaze in his general direction for less than a full second – before grunting with one last _shove_ that ends up looking like she's attempting to fling Grover through the window from sheer frustration. He lands in the seat she previously occupied, undisturbed from what would have sent anyone else into a panicked scramble and curls up against the two seats. Percy spares a brief prayer of gratitude toward the heavens that no one sat in the seat next to Annabeth.

Annabeth smacks her hands together like she's washing her hands, young haughtiness stroking Percy's sensitive nerves. He bites back the series of argumentative comments expanding in his chest, turning his attention back out the window. Belatedly, he realizes he never pulled his hand out of his pocket, so he does that then, flexing his fingers with a contemplative tilt of his head. The sting is more of a twinge than a jolt now. He scowls when he realizes this.

"Okay, stop that," Annabeth says sharply, shuddering. "I swear, you're going to make me throw up."

Percy lurches, whirling on her again as she plops herself into Grover's old seat next to him. He leans away from her. "Okay, personal boundaries, Wise Ass. Learn them."

She _does_ roll her eyes that time. "This is a bus. I'm as much outside of your bubble as I can be sitting next to you like this. Stop being a baby."

Percy resists the urge to tell her just how inaccurate that sentence is. Instead, he glares at her with as much menace as he dares risk. He can do more, of course, but he knows he overindulged chasing Ares off earlier. For a god of war, he sure can be a cowardly toddler who balks at the first sign of real threat.

Percy never gets the chance to decide on a _different_ retort, because then Annabeth is facing him with that disapproving glower of hers that makes him want to wilt like a flower denied water for months on end in too much sunlight. She crosses her arms. "I know I'm not the most emotionally intelligent person you will ever meet. I'm fine with that. I value applicable intellect more than interpersonal proficiency, anyway." Percy feels that land like a steel-tipped whip across his soul. The one thing he's good at, and of course, she sees it as inferior. Why does he even bother listening anymore? "But I don't have to be an empath to know using a freaking _steak knife_ like a stress ball is indication something is very, very, _very_ wrong with you." She pauses, considering while Percy sputters from alarm. "Emotionally," she adds, like that wasn't already obvious.

Percy presses two fingers into his third eye, thumb massaging circles into his temple to stave off the oncoming migraine he suspects will not be averted. "This must be why some people drink," he mutters to himself, then flashes back to stale alcohol mixed with cigar smoke mixed with burning flesh, and it takes every scrap of self-control he has not to heave onto the floor of the bus.

"Look, the last thing we need right now is our quest leader starting off on some self-destructive binge with the fate of Western Civilization hanging in the balance, and it's easy to tell you and Grover are going through something, so he's not comfortable confronting you about this, which leaves me, because I don't care if you hate me."

Percy chokes a little, pressing his entire hand against his forehead now. "Who the hell taught you tact, Chase?"

"That's a can of worms you do _not_ want opened, Seaweed Brain," she bites back, and usually, Percy would respect those boundaries. He recognizes only too well how much it can hurt when someone damages protective walls erected around sensitive subjects, and he already knows what Annabeth is referring to.

Tonight, though? He's flushing those personal values down the metaphorical toilet. He is _not_ talking about this. "There it is again," he murmurs, sure to make it audible enough for her to hear.

He feels a conflicting stab of satisfaction and guilt at the way she falters. "What are you talking about?"

"Whatever childhood trauma you carry around like an entire _boulder_ on your shoulder at all possible times," he says, facing her fully. "Don't think I don't notice you fidgeting with that ring on your necklace _every time_ someone talks about their parents. You and Luke have an entire Shakespearean tragedy for a backstory, but at least Luke tries his best not to inflict _his_ issues on everyone he meets."

 _No_ , a little voice in the back of Percy's hums. _He just bottles it up until it distills into an explosive mixture powerful enough to level Western Civilization and a fair bit besides._

Percy clenches his hand hard. The little voice shuts the hell up.

Annabeth stares at Percy like he betrayed her. His heart fits itself inside a vice. It kills him to watch her wilt like this, her fire flickering out and her unresolved insecurities rushing to the surface. Her eyes shine a bright, exquisite silver, corners filling with tears. She retreats, moving to claim the seat next to Grover.

Guilt has always been Percy's master, though, and even with a mental coach screaming at him for how _completely fucking stupid_ it is, he catches her wrist. Annabeth stops to face him again, entire demeanor guarded.

"Look…sorry. That was… _totally_ out of line. I didn't mean it. I don't know your story." She never needs to know how much of a boldfaced lie that is. "You've got every right to have issues because your life's been shit. Like…that's human. I shouldn't have lashed out like that. I'm an asshole."

Annabeth sets her jaw. "Yes," she agrees, "you are." She settles into the seat again. They sit in oppressive silence for a while.

But then, just as Percy turns his attention back to the window to watch the world blur past in streaks of interminable color while thoughts of a brother and sister float through his mind, Annabeth speaks. "I don't think it took my father an entire week after Athena left him to marry this..." Annabeth makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "This _horrible_ woman. She hated me on sight. I was just a little, disgusting freak, polluting her picture-perfect family all the time. I ran away when I was seven."

Percy awards the confession an appropriately spaced silence. Already knowing the tale doesn't diminish his sympathy in the slightest. "I'm sorry."

Annabeth tosses her shoulder in an unconvincing facsimile of a shrug. "It's whatever. I found my _real_ family a little while later. They – " Her voice catches. Before Percy can stop himself, he takes her hand and squeezes gently. She glances down in surprise but relaxes. "One was Luke. The other…" She looks across the aisle to Grover. "The other was Thalia."

"The girl Luke panicked over?"

Annabeth glares at him for that. He averts his eyes. "She was a daughter of Zeus. She was always so…so _strong_ and _defiant_ and _confident_. I just remember thinking all the time that she couldn't die. Like, Death would show up to take her, and she'd just punch him in the face."

Percy's face suffers convulsions from the effort not to bust out laughing at the irreverent accuracy of that statement. "She sounds like an awesome person."

"She was," Annabeth confirms, nodding. "But she wasn't invincible. Hades was angry that Zeus had broken the oath. He sent _everything_ he had after us. Grover was our protector, but he…he got scared and confused and turned around. By the time he found camp…we were overwhelmed."

Percy rubs circles over the back of her hand. She relaxes more, tears beginning to fall down her face.

"Thalia sent us ahead. She…there were _so many monsters_ , and she killed most of them before…" Annabeth covers her mouth, choking on sobs.

Percy tugs her against him, holding her and consoling her through her strangled gasps, offering her the compassion and patience he knows she hasn't had from most anyone. She huddles against his chest. He pretends the burn in his eyes is just tiredness.

After a little while, Annabeth pulls back and wipes her cheeks, sniffling. Percy crushes the urge to pull her back in and settles into his seat, hands and residual heartbreak kept unto himself.

"Zeus turned her to a tree in those final moments," Annabeth explains with a clearer voice. "Two summers ago, I got this letter from my dad, telling me how much he loved me, how much he missed me. He wanted to make things work."

"You went home," Percy guesses, even if it's not a guess.

She nods. "It started all over again. My stepmother _still_ hated me. She didn't want me tainting her precious, perfect baby boys. Monsters attacked. We argued. Monsters attacked. We argued. I didn't even make it through winter break before I called Chiron to go back to Camp Half-Blood."

Percy gnaws on his bottom lip. "That…that sucks," he says, carefully. "I'm really sorry."

She tosses her shoulder in another pseudo-shrug. "Yeah."

"Well…" He considers. "Do you think your father _knew_ how your stepmother made you feel?"

Annabeth stops, eyeing him with rapid blinks. "What?"

"It's just…I mean, love is blind, right? And he has kids with her, it sounds like, so maybe he didn't want to see how toxic she was being for you. And maybe she was just as bad for her own kids, just in a different way, and you were too young and hurting too much to notice." Percy realizes how that might sound. "Not that that's your fault! It just kinda sounds like…well, families are messy. Yours sounds _super_ -messy, but maybe most of everyone's problem is your father's wife, and if he knows what she's done, the horrible ways she's treated you…maybe you can work something out. Something better for all of you."

Annabeth stares at Percy in shock. "That…whoa."

Percy shrugs.

* * *

"Mr. Chase?" The bewilderment in the homeowner's voice is fierce when he opens his front door on a disheveled man with graying, sandy hair and reading glasses askew on his nose. "What's wrong?"

"I'm very sorry, my boy," Mr. Chase says, braced clumsily against the wall just as a wave of hard liquor hits the homeowner's nose, "but I'm rather intoxicated, and I can't go home to that woman unless I want to commit second-degree murder."

Mr. Chase is led inside and offered a fresh pot of coffee. He then explains his blindness to the toxicity of his wife, Helen, whose adherence to a flawless familial image not only alienated his daughter for years, stripping him of dozens of opportunities, but now, his sons have revealed feelings of inadequacy and inferiority rooted in the face they always hear their mother falsifying their accomplishments with other parents just to make them look smarter and more hard-working and everything she wants them to be.

"Mr. Chase," Percy Jackson finds himself saying, shifting forward, "I think it's time for you to divorce your wife."

Mr. Chase nods. "Yes, my boy," he says. "I do believe you are quite right."

* * *

"So," Annabeth says after a while. The bus is stopped in Las Vegas, a few passengers wandering off with distracted murmurs. Grover mumbles, stretching like he's about to wake up, only to roll over to curl up with his head on the arm rest.

Percy glances toward her, arching an eyebrow. "So."

"About your hand."

Percy groans loudly and tugs his hoodie over his head, sinking deeper into his seat with the most melodramatic, obnoxious production Annabeth thinks she has ever seen. This includes Luke's overdone acting when replicating entertaining anecdotes to her delight.

She shoves his shoulder lightly. "C'mon, Jackson. I told you mine. Pretty sure that makes it your turn to unload about the traumatic circumstances which birthed your need for morbid, detrimental coping mechanisms."

Percy's eyes peek out from inside his jacket, the only part of his face visible. "You're tired," he tells her.

"What?" She scoffs. "Honestly, Seaweed Brain. You will resort to any variety of inane methods to postpone discussing your – "

"Annabeth," Percy interrupts, "you're taking entire _minutes_ to say the simplest things. You only do this when you're tired. Get some sleep."

"And _how_ would you know that?" She refuses to entertain the notion she might have bristled at that.

"Luke," he says easily. "Now get some sleep. We still have a couple hours before we reach Los Angeles."

"Not until you talk to me," she insists. Percy falters. Annabeth realizes only after the words have landed with an uncomfortable weight in the air that they were edged with desperation.

Percy's eyes scrunch together every-so-slightly as he regards her with caution. Walls of reinforced attitude, defensiveness, and redirection stretch on for eternities within the depths of his eyes. Suddenly, Annabeth thinks she can get lost in that maze without ever yearning for a way out.

"Why?" Percy asks. His tone is flat, unadorned and simple. It even lacks the customary rise in inflection indicative of a question, so much that Annabeth wonders if it was meant as one. Annabeth wonders if he already knows the answer – and the tiniest flicker of doubt in his gaze makes her wonder if he fears it.

"Because you're my friend," she hears herself saying with aching sincerity. "You're my friend, and I'm worried about you."

Annabeth can't tell if that was the correct answer, because Percy averts his eyes with the tightest clench of his fist yet, entire arm shaking from the strain. It dawns on her he feels the urge to cry and is fighting it. She reaches across him to take his hand the way he did hers earlier. He falters, looking at her as she pries his fist open.

"You can cry," she tells him. "I won't think any less of you."

He scoffs. "Because you _can't_ think any less of me," he says bitterly. "I'm already as low in your opinion as I can get."

She shakes her head. "Maybe once," she admits, "but that was petty. Luke was right. You're smarter than you look, and…you're braver than I think you know. If anyone can save the world from this…I'm pretty sure it's going to be you."

Something electrifies between them – an intense, transcendent connection. Annabeth thinks of all the times she thought she had Moments with Luke – instances she points to when challenged on her crush as _this is why we should be together_. A terrifying notion occurs to her from the swell inside her chest, a sense of completeness that she knows should scare her and only settles her.

What if she engineered her intense love for Luke? What if this is what real connections feel like?

"I'm scared of myself," Percy whispers like a horrible, treacherous secret. The quiver in his voice hurts her on a deeper level than she knows words for. "I'm scared of what I'm capable of if you push me. I'm scared, if I let my temper get the best of me…I'll wake up one day and see a monster in the mirror."

Driven by something indescribable, Annabeth presses her lips to his cheek. It warms against them. "You could never be a monster," she swears as she pulls back. "I'm sure you can do bad things for good reasons, but you could _never_ be a monster."

His eyes water as he meets her gaze, clutching her hand for dear life. Annabeth thinks maybe it's time Luke third-wheeled for a change.

"ENCHILADAS!"


	8. THE WORLD IS SAVED (...AGAIN?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Referenced Self-Harm, POV Panic Attack

LUKE CAN'T SLEEP. He hasn't gotten more than a few minutes of shuteye since Percy left for his quest, taking Annabeth and Grover with him. Why did he have to choose the two people left in Luke's life he could still let himself care about? Why did Luke's entire world have to hang in the balance?

If this quest fails – if Hades seeks revenge against the wrong person, if the stolen symbols of power are not recovered, if Ares destroys them before they can complete their task – then everyone Luke loves will die.

But, somehow, that's not the reason for his sleeplessness. At least, it's not all of it. Something else nags at him, persistent and sinister. His mind replays countless conversations with Percy, chasing his eyes open every time he starts to settle because another interaction registers as _wrong_. Incorrect. False. Fake. _Scripted_.

Percy has PTSD. Luke is no therapist, but he feels comfortable enough with the list of symptoms to determine that, yes, most people do not respond to loud noises by pulling out weapons or take several hours to calm down from a mostly nonviolent assault when they escaped unharmed or wake up screaming themselves hoarse every night they dared close their eyes or neurotically double-check every single entrance in a new place until they are sure they're all locked and guarded.

That's fine, in and of itself. _Obviously_ , Percy is a victim of abuse. He won't admit to it in such blunt language, but the way he talks about his late-stepfather or handles the kids in Cabin Eleven with known histories proves it. Most domestic abuse survivors emerge from the violence with ghosts of their experiences haunting their daily behaviors. Luke would be more surprised if Percy _didn't_ have something coloring his worldview.

No, the bewildering part is that Percy doesn't act like _any other survivor of domestic abuse Luke has ever met_. When triggered, they find corners to hide in, shielding their vulnerable body parts to the best of their ability. They are trained to hunker down the first place they can wait out the storm – _not_ fight back.

Yet there's Percy, who draws arms at the first sign of trouble. Percy, who fights back without thinking twice, even against bigger, stronger, better trained campers. Percy, who wouldn't understand the words _take it in the teeth_ if they stabbed him. Percy, who behaves more like a veteran of war than a twelve-year-old kid.

_"Tell them it's because of Thalia,"_ Percy had said when everyone caught up with them after his claiming. Luke still struggles to understand why Percy covered for him; doesn't he understand? Luke's bitterness, his _stupidity_ might cost him his life. And when had he heard about Thalia? _Who_ told him that story?

_"They sprout wings?"_ The derision, the _betrayal_ coating Percy's words as he stared at the shoe box Luke thrust at him with the purest intentions – where had it come from? It was like Percy had just been given proof Luke's claims that he wanted nothing more to do with Kronos' schemes had been lies. Like…like Luke had just fulfilled an expectation he wished he didn't have.

Then those strange moments, when Luke would look at Percy and see someone twice his age, a grey streak in his hair, every inch of skin adorned with its own scar, a tattoo on his forearm – he _must be_ going crazy if he dares think too hard about that. Kronos broke his sanity. He's nuts. It's _nothing_. It's _nothing_ , dammit, _nothing_.

Why can't he shake the feeling Percy coached him through what to say when he led him to Cabin Eleven? Those questions…it's almost like Percy isolated the greatest sources of his bitterness and targeted them to…to what? To sympathize?

No, Luke realizes, tensing up in bed to stare at the ceiling. To give him someone to talk to. To make him feel less alone – less like he had to run, less like the only way to make things better was to tear it down and start from scratch. To befriend him.

So, when he was claimed, Luke would want too badly to protect his friend to continue working with a manipulative titan.

That tears it, Luke thinks, heart hammering in his chest. He clutches it. First thing in the morning, Luke is placing an Iris-Message to Grover Underwood, and then he's having a serious chat with a son of Poseidon.

* * *

"I'm not sure if you're aware," Annabeth tells Percy as he wades deeper into the surf at the beach, "but _the Lord of Underworld_ is not going to position the entrance to his realm anywhere near his brother's domain."

Grover chomps down on a tin can and gulps it down. Percy and Annabeth flinch at the sound in unison. Percy's emotions jump – a flash of adrenaline that fades out. Grover shrugs at Annabeth. "I mean…do we _have_ to go the Underworld? Maybe we can all just have a nice vacation at the bea – "

"Sorry, G-man," Percy interrupts. "We're still hitting the Underworld. I'm just playing a hunch."

"A hunch?" Annabeth crosses her arms and taps her foot on the beach sand. "Does that hunch involve stalling?"

" _Hello_ , Wise Girl," Percy drawls, offering her an unamused eyebrow raise and a much nicer nickname than the one he dubbed her with before. "Son of Poseidon? I had this weird dream on the bus. Figure to check it out."

"You slept on the bus?" Annabeth and Grover say in disbelieving unison, Grover bent down to scoop up a napkin that blew into his leg on the breeze.

"Don't eat that," Annabeth reprimands, snatching it away. "Gods, Grover, you can't just eat any garbage you see. You have no idea where this has been!" She waves it in his face.

Percy snorts. "Promise to bring back some pollution for you, G-man." With that, he dives into the ocean, and Grover distractedly pulls out his last tin can to chew on to offset his anxiety.

"Will you calm down?" Annabeth demands. "Look, Percy may be pretty stupid when he wants to be, but he clearly knows what he's doing. Mostly."

Grover frowns at her. "That was almost a compliment." Annabeth's cheeks flush as her emotions swell tellingly. Grover recognizes it immediately – he's felt the same thing for the many dryads at Camp Half-Blood who want nothing to do with him. "Oh my gods!" he exclaims. "You have a crush on Percy!"

"Shut up!" Annabeth hisses urgently, shoving Grover and looking at the ocean like the object of her affections is about to pop up like a seal to call her out. Grover doubts he even knows they're talking under there, let alone what's being said. "And I do _not_."

"You _so_ do." Grover beams. "You're blushing."

"I am not!" Annabeth touches her cheek self-consciously. "It's, uh…it's the heat. It's warm out here. It's a natural physical response caused by the blood vessels under the skin to widen to try to cool – "

Grover tunes her out, feeling self-satisfied in the knowledge she wouldn't be babbling about random medical facts if she wasn't embarrassed and he was right. He munches on his can lazily, anxieties forgotten – until he remembers he had anxieties he forgot and promptly starts bleating nervously.

"Grover!"

Grover whirls with a yelp, empty bag of comfort cans going airborne. He finds a misty projection of Luke flickering in front of him. Annabeth immediately tries to force her errant curls under control, smoothing her shirt and scrubbing at the dirt on her face with her palms.

"H-hi, Luke," she stutters, blush intensifying. Grover doesn't need to be close enough to feel Luke's emotions to know how uncomfortable he is with her crush on him. "How are you? And camp. How's camp?"

"We're holding in there," he tells her. "Inter-cabin tensions are rising the closer it gets to the summer solstice. People are already choosing sides. But that's not why I'm – where's Percy?" The last is edged with a fine layer of hysteria, gaze sweeping over their incomplete trio frantically.

"Underwater," Annabeth and Grover say as one. Grover lets Annabeth distract herself with the explanation at Luke's confused expression while he snatches up a paper plate drifting in the wind. "He says he had a weird dream about – Grover!"

Grover shoves as much of the plate into his mouth as he can before she can stop him, chewing it obstinately and ignoring the cringe-worthy sounds it makes.

"Gods, you're disgusting!" Annabeth turns to Luke again, one hand raised like a blinder to Grover's unsanitary dietary habits. "Percy's probably following a lead from his father. Or something. He'll be back soon."

Luke lets out a sigh of relief. "Good. And you're both okay?" Grover and Annabeth both alleviate his worries with their respective nods, Grover finishing off the last of his plate. "Hey, Grover, you mind if I talk to you?"

Grover burps. "Sure!" he chirps, much more cheerful with a full stomach. "What's up?"

"Actually…" Luke shifts with uncharacteristic sheepishness. Grover tilts his head. The other satyrs tease him all the time about being emotionally dense if he doesn't have his empathy available for any reason, and lately, with Percy's knotted maze of emotions, Grover has started to worry he's getting rusty even _with_ the empathy, but something feels off about Luke right now.

Annabeth notices it too – part of that telepathic connection she shares with him after so many years attached at the hip, Grover knows. "Are you sure you're okay, Luke? You look…" She seems to cast around for the right words for a few moments. "…scared."

"Don't worry about it," Luke dismisses with a too-wide smile. Grover may not be as close to him as Annabeth – or even Percy, now – but he knows it can't mean anything good when Luke's natural charisma starts to wear thin. "Just…Grover, please?"

Grover offers Annabeth a helpless shrug. She chews a little on her fingernail while she watches him wander a little ways down the beach, far enough that the wind will drown out any words exchanged at a normal volume, but close enough Annabeth can run over if something tries to have terrified satyr for breakfast.

"So, what's the big problem, Luke?" he asks, spotting a _Pepsi_ can floating on the waves next to his feet. He snatches it up before it can get away from him.

Luke pulls a face. "That…yeah, Annabeth's right about that being gross." He shakes his disapproval off. "Is anything…I mean, when you sense Percy's emotions. Does anything ever feel… _off_ …about them?"

Grover stiffens, can partway to his mouth. Protective instincts flare up inside his chest. "That's not something I'm going to tell you, Luke."

"I don't need specifics," Luke assures him. "It's just…look, I can't help but get this weird feeling from Percy sometimes. Not _bad_ , just…different. Like there's something about him that isn't…I don't know… _normal_?" Grover frowns deeper. "I mean, _none_ of us are normal, obviously, I just mean…" He drags his fingers through his hair. "Percy doesn't have any siblings of his own." Luke spread his hands hopelessly. "Cabin Eleven is the closest he's got, and you know…anyone else, _their siblings_ are the ones who talk them through any problems they're going through. I don't want Percy to feel alone because of this stupid oath, you know?"

Grover chews contemplatively on the aluminum can. Just because Percy won't admit to his ugly coping mechanisms doesn't mean Grover doesn't know about them. Annabeth suppresses the urge to throw up every time he asks about the cut Percy refuses to heal on his palm, and considering Ares' aura, it isn't hard to piece together how Percy kept himself from indulging his enhanced temper. Unlike Annabeth, though, Percy isn't the first person Grover's met who uses self-harm to cope with things he doesn't know how to handle otherwise. A disturbing number of half-bloods find solace in it, too, and while it's never a good thing, sometimes, the best thing to do for them is make sure they're aware they can reach out for help when they're ready.

Still – Percy is the _youngest_ person who hurts himself. If he already feels that out of control at twelve? Maybe offering Percy a safe space to turn to when he's ready isn't the best course of action here. Besides, Grover _did_ say that really stupid thing before. Percy might never trust him enough to confide in him again.

Percy seems to trust Luke a lot, though, so…

"Percy's…I guess you could say overwhelmed?" Grover bleats a little, shifting around in his magic shoes. "Honestly, it confuses me, sometimes. Most twelve-year-olds don't feel that many emotions altogether, let alone that strongly. That's more a teenager thing. He's…yeah. He's overwhelmed, and he might…I don't know, feel like he needs to do things he shouldn't do to…sift through it?"

_Gee, Grover, that wasn't a terrible way of saying-not-saying Percy hurts himself at all! Well done. Stupid goat._

Something strange plays with Luke's features after he finishes – almost like he just had a terrible suspicion confirmed. Shadows flirt with the edges of a normally sunny face. He nods, gnawing on his lip.

"Yeah. Yeah, that…thanks, Grover. That helps."

Grover hesitates. "Luke…" His heart stops. "Wait, has Percy hurt himself _before_?"

Luke chokes violently. "Has Percy _what himself_ before?"

Grover wishes "words" were part of the satyr diet. "I…I mean…I didn't…don't tell him I told you!" he pleads. "I already messed up everything bringing Percy to camp after he killed the Minotaur. If he finds out…please, Luke. I thought you already knew."

Luke holds his head, apparently dizzied. "I…well, I didn't, but…I won't tell him you're the one who told me. I'll talk to him when you guys get back. It's…whoa. Yeah, I'll talk to him. He shouldn't go through this…whoa."

Grover frowns a little deeper. "Luke…is there something else going on? Something _you're_ not telling _me_?"

Luke studies Grover for several long, tense moments. "No, Grover," he says, so smooth it almost sounds like the truth. "There's nothing. It looks like Percy is back. You guys should get going."

With that, Luke terminates the Iris Message, and Grover is left wondering how many people will lock him out before this quest is over.

* * *

"You _dare_ storm my kingdom under this pretense?!" Hades explodes, surging to his feet while his power swells. Skeletal guards storm the throne room, brandishing weapons from every era of warfare known to mankind.

Percy glances at Annabeth and Grover, both of them white as sheets and looking ready to bolt before they hear an explanation. Grover shakes almost comically bad, sweating bullets while sweeping his gaze over his surroundings. Luke's _Nike_ shoes still cover his hooves, even though Percy vividly remembers fighting his hysteria while they passed the dark mouth of Tartarus. Seeing them stabs Percy with a twinge of regret now; Luke told him the truth. He should have trusted him.

Annabeth white-knuckles her dagger, eyes averted from the fuming immortal looming in front of them. Percy knows she already has a plan for how to break out of here.

Percy reaches into his pocket, rolling the pearls in his palm. All he must do now is calm one of the strongest, quickest-to-anger gods in the entire pantheon after betraying his trust. Piece of cake, right?

Percy takes a deep breath and prays to The Fates this works. "Uncle, please, we just want to know why you would orchestrate this war." He flicks his eyes toward his two quest mates urgently, jaw locked. Hades is no idiot. He _must_ understand what Percy is trying to do. "The Underworld is already overcrowded. I – "

Hades' eyes widen in understanding. Percy resists the urge to collapse over the chilly stones pressing unforgivably into his knees. "Foolish godlings. The last thing I need is more war. Did you _see_ the never-ended sprawl of the Fields of Asphodel? It's enough of an impossible task to accommodate the spirits I already _have_ , let alone swaths more should you mortals insist on killing each other in the millions again."

Percy exchanges what he hopes is a believably shocked expression with his friends. Grover is too busy trying not to faint to notice, and Annabeth lifts her gaze in alarm. "Wait. Lord Hades, you mean…you _didn't_ steal the Master Bolt?" she asks.

"Inconceivable!" Hades roared. "My _darling_ brothers would have you believe I desire little else than their precious Olympus. They can _keep_ their sparkling kingdom. I'd rather they leave me to my own – and return my Helm!"

"Your Helm of Darkness is missing, too?" Percy asks, earning the closest to an eye roll he might ever see from the Lord of the Dead.

"Yes! And I would have had your hide for the theft if my Fury had not reported that you carried no trace of its power at that asinine school!"

Grover bleats harshly. "Wait. Mrs. Dodds _was_ a Kindly One? I was _right_?"

"Not the time, G-man," Percy hisses back to him, then looks at Hades. "Please, Uncle. You're a reasonable god. Let us go. We'll find your Helm _and_ the Bolt. There won't be a war to inflate your kingdom."

Hades glares at him. "I am not known for my mercy, godling."

_Oh, really?_ Percy stops himself from retorting. _So, Orpheus was just a fluke, then? So was Theseus when Hercules freed him. And freeing my mom the first time around the second you had your Helm back even though I'd kinda made you look like a total idiot to all your zombies had to be a complete accident._ _Let's not even_ start _on Nico's French zombie chauffeur._ _Oh, yeah, you're one mean cookie_. 

Instead, Percy looks at him. "We are the only ones who know you're as much a victim of this crime as Zeus is," Percy says patiently. "Killing us – entrapping us here – ensures you will never find your Helm and war _will_ break out. You don't want that."

Hades scowls at him. "No. I don't." He relents, sinking into his throne. He waves his guards away. Percy glances over at the pile of goat pellets behind Grover, who would have fainted if Annabeth hadn't caught him. "You may leave with your lives, godlings, a rare allowance on my part. That's all I will give you."

"That's all we need, Uncle. Guys?" Percy pulls out the pearls, and as the three of them crush them under their feet, Percy exchanges a knowing look with Hades. He knows he hallucinates the wink he receives in response.

* * *

Percy tries not to be insulted by how easy it is to defeat Ares the second time. It's been the one thing in this entire mess he looked forward to. As far as he's been able to determine, none of the gods know about his predicament, so maybe it's a clue into Ares'… _less_ reprehensible nature that he holds back when fighting a literal kid. Or maybe Ares should _so_ not have the title "God of War," because if a twelve-year-old can whoop his ass without breaking a sweat, there's an issue.

After the Furies fly away to return the Helm of Darkness to Hades, it's time to figure out their next steps. They're days around the curb – it's only June 13th. They still have an entire week before Zeus throws the ultimate hissy fit over his supernatural blankie.

Except traveling cross-country again risks monsters, and even though they got lucky on the way here (gee, Percy wonders _why_ ), the way back is an unknown quotient. The Master Bolt will attract all varieties of monsters. A trio of kids cannot exactly call upon the power of a god-level explosive to defend themselves, and if they're killed in the time it takes them to reach Mount Olympus, all of this was for nothing, anyway.

Except there are no police officers lining the beach this time. There wasn't a Gabe to accuse Percy of killing his mother and, mysteriously, the security footage from the St. Louis Arch couldn't get a good look at the face of the kid who blew up that elevator. It uncomplicated a lot of the journey, but maybe – just _maybe_ – Percy should have taken the last leg of it into consideration before capsizing that particular avenue, because now they can _not_ afford a plane ticket back to New York.

Which is when Annabeth gets a knotted, nauseous look on her face. Percy swings their nuclear backpack over his shoulder, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Hey," he said. "What are you thinking?"

Annabeth takes a deep breath. "I…know someone who might be able to help us."

* * *

Most of their friends try not to pick sides – well, except for ones like Piper, who doesn't hesitate to call him the spawn of Satan while taking her brokenhearted girlfriend out to the bar for drinks. For days after it ends, no one visits him. They call, each leaving their own take on the message proclaiming, "You're both our friends and even though we don't really know how this happened, we're here for both of you." He listens to their voices wash over him from the armchair, not moving.

For five days, he thinks of nothing but Gabe and _her_. He tries to remember which one started the spiral, but he also doesn't care.

But then there's a rude, insistent knock on their – _his_ , now; she moved in with her best friend in the whole wide world – front door. He ignores it. A second later, there's a tan hand snatching his beer bottle away from him and smashing it against the ground.

"What in Hades?" Nico di Angelo demands. "You _hate_ alcohol!"

He shrugs and reaches for the last of that room-temperature six-pack. He takes a large skull ring to the cheek, and then Nico is hauling him to his feet and dumping him into the bathtub without grace. The effect is instantaneous. He clutches his head against the florescent lights bearing down on him, gasping from pain.

There are a few moments of silence. He manages to turn his squinted gaze to his lanky younger cousin, for once without some sort of dark jacket covering his themed T-shirt. It's _Día de los Muertos_ today. The colorful, dancing skeletons on the front look happier than the grouch wearing them.

But then the grouch is softer, onyx eyes deepening with sympathy. "You guys didn't let me fall apart no matter how hard I tried to chase you away before, Percy," Nico tells him with the utmost sincerity and sympathy, "so, even though I'm _still_ not going to take a side in this, I know Piper will look after Annabeth. Which means I'm looking after you."

* * *

Annabeth stares at the graffiti-ed payphone attached to the unsavory-looking facade of a popular convenience store – well, if _frequently robbed at gunpoint_ counts as _popular_ in Santa Monica, which Annabeth would venture a guess it _does._ Her pocket weighs with more quarters than a person should ever carry.

"Can't you just, like…IM him?" Grover asks. Percy took mercy on his best friend inside the perilous convenience store – which, Annabeth thinks, might have been the scariest part of this quest, shuffling outside while waiting for some mortal crook to shoot her friend dead for maybe a hundred dollars, tops – to buy him a six-pack of _Coca-Cola_. Grover looks a lot happier for it now.

"Annabeth's father hasn't heard from her in, like, years, G-man," Percy reminds him gently. "Besides, they kinda get into fights about demigod stuff a lot, so it's probably best she uses a more normal way to call him, at least for now."

Annabeth feels a tremendous wave of gratitude wash over her. Why Percy talking about her past reassures her instead of sending her into a blind rage like it does every other person who dares mention she had to have a mortal parent, she never wants to know. Grover is wrong, though. She does _not_ have a crush on him. Sure, he's got this great smile that does stupid things to her stomach and puts Luke's to shame; when she lets herself, Percy can make her laugh for _minutes_ until she's in more danger of suffocating from amusement than dying from a monster attack; being around him now elicits an intense, instinctual _calm_ in her, like it doesn't matter what happens, she can trust him with anything, and –

Oh, who is she kidding? She has a _giant_ crush. She just hopes Luke won't be upset when she asks him for advice.

Percy nudges her. "Go on, Wise Girl," he encourages. "Sooner you call, the sooner you know if it's worth another shot."

Annabeth takes a deep breath. She feeds a couple quarters into the payphone. Percy braces against the wall beside her – not crowding, but _there_ , and Annabeth wonders for the briefest moment if it might feel even better if he wrapped his arms around her from behind – and Grover is smirking at her, stop that – and the phone is ringing against her ear now – is she literally sweating bullets? She wouldn't be surprised – and how many rings is it going to _get through_ before it goes to voice message? – and she's pretty sure she's about to faint – and –

"Professor Frederick Chase," her father's familiar, whimsically professional tones answer at long last.

Annabeth performs her best imitation of a pterodactyl screech – never mind that no one has the faintest idea what a pterodactyl sounded like when they went extinct well before mankind had the ability to record their cries – before flinging the payphone away from her.

Percy catches it and slides in front of her, crossing his arms. He says nothing, raising an eyebrow with the slightest, most – least! _Least_! – attractive smirk she's ever seen as he hands her the phone.

Annabeth accepts it and croaks into the receiver. "H-hi, Dad."

There's the distinct sound of an office avalanche on the other side of the phone. " _Annabeth_?" he cries.

She winces. "So…Dad, we…we've gotta talk, but…I kinda need a favor, first?"

* * *

Camp Half-Blood explodes with fanfare – Apollo campers blaring a victory march on their various instruments, Cabin Eleven's overenthusiastic inhabitants loosing its stolen merchandise on the valley in the form of party hats, noise makers, and birthday balloons scribbled over in sharpie to say things like: _CONGRATULATIONS! YOU DIDN'T DIE!_

Disembodied hands shove laurel wreaths at Percy, Annabeth and Grover, ushering them toward the Dining Pavilion for the massive feast prepared in their honor. Chiron stands before assembled campers, giving some meaningful speech about how proud he is to see his students acting with such determination and bravery. They have all done their parents well and proven themselves true heroes.

In the excitement and relief, no one notices how ashen Percy Jackson looks, staring at his plate of delicious food with a far-off expression, prodding it with a fork, or the way he sways in place while everyone crowds him with congratulations, or the way he holds the top of a plastic knife so tightly, his knuckles bleed white, or the gradual way his even breaths turn shallow and rapid.

At least, until a giant wave crashes over the forest and the son of Poseidon hits the dirt with a bloodcurdling scream.

* * *

"Luke," Percy hears himself gasp after enough steel tendrils stop choking his heart into a deadly vice, rocking while Chiron attempts to press a water bottle into his hands. He knows people are staring right now – he can feel their eyes on him, each one disgusted to see their great hero brought low by nothing whatsoever, just his own mind terrorizing him, and it makes him sick, it makes him _so sick_ , because all of them expect him to be stronger than he is, stronger than a kid, stronger than a man, and why? Because he kinda saved the world that one time? Because…because…

And there's shuffling and muttering, and then a few minutes later, Percy hears Chiron talking to him. He struggles to listen. " – be here right now," he says. "I'm sure he will come as soon as he's able, but until then, I'm here. I need you to breathe, Percy. In for four…"

Luke's not coming, Percy thinks. He can't breathe – he's scrabbling at his chest while monsters peel back the muscle and his ribs to crush his heart in their meaty claws, he's struggling to even remember the date – he thinks Chiron asked once, and Percy told him it was too late, too late to close the Doors, too late to save them, he failed, it's _too late_ – and it's so much, it's too much, and he's drowning – he's drowning in the ice-cold waters below Hubbard Glacier, he's drowning the muskeg of Alaska, he's drowning in the toxic spring of the Nymphaeum – _gods, help him, the son of Neptune can't drown_ – and he's sinking into the Cocytus, and _why does he always fight?_ What's the point? It's just another fight tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. And _gods_ , will they ever let him rest? – and _where is Luke_?

And then it's gone – the panic is gone, the anxiety is gone, the monsters tearing him apart are gone – and he's in the attic, gazing sorrowfully at the mummified Oracle with too-strong memories of why and how and when and _Rachel_ , and he's asking that same question that haunts him everywhere he goes, and then there's green smoke spewing into the room, filling it, and he sees his friends from the _Argo II_.

Frank is the first to turn to him, and Percy must clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from sobbing aloud. _You shall go west to face the god who has turned_ , Frank tells him.

Percy reminds himself this is normal, calm down, there's no need for his heart to be racing right now, it's just a projection, it's not real, _not real, dammit, not_ –

Then it's Nico, looking at him without empathy, without anything, saying, _You shall find what was stolen and see it safely returned_.

And Percy knows it's coming. He feels it in his bones. Of course, how could he think this would ever play out differently? You can't change history. You can't rewrite the lines of a prophecy and expect it to _work_. He's braced. He's ready. He's ready to hear that he let himself care for a predestined traitor.

It's Hazel who tells him: _You shall lose faith in one you called a friend_.

And Percy is confused, because isn't he _betrayed_? And doesn't Luke call _him_ a friend rather than the other way around? And no – wait, _history changed_! He saved him! He saved Luke after all!

It's Jason – dear Jason, lost Jason, brave Jason, Jason-who-never-should-have-died-for-a-worthless-god-like-Apollo-Jason – who delivers the final, debilitating line: _and succumb to temptation from which to amend._

And then it's just Percy – just Percy, in the attic, on his knees, gasping, choking back sobs he can't let escape, _alone, lonely, alone_ – and he's struggling to breathe because he doesn't understand, he doesn't get it, what temptation? _What temptation_? He's not going to do something bad. He's not a bad guy. He's a hero. He's a hero. _He's a hero_.

And someone's laughing at him – someone is _always_ laughing, and he's alone, and –

Luke's not coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of this until the afterword, guys.


	9. NOTHING IS EVER THE SAME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to unforeseen life complications, I decided to post the final updates days in advance. I am sorry to anyone who this might inconvenience. Please, if you can, take the time to leave your thoughts in a comment. All and any feedback is greatly appreciated, and it would be wonderful to hear how you receive the story as a whole now, especially because heavy mystery is not my usual writing genre, so anyone who can offer critique is my favorite person. Thank you.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Self-Harm, Implied Murder, Manipulation, Implied Major Character Death

A LATE-NIGHT BATHROOM BREAK, he tells his cabin-mates as he stumbles clumsily toward the disgusting restroom, latching the door before locking it, then unlocking it, then locking it again, unlocking it, and locking it again. His heart hammers in his chest. Every graceless snore on the other side of the door triggers the unspoken _freeze_ part of _fight or flight_. His hand trembles as he watches it disappear into his right jeans pocket. He feels his fingers wrap around the cool, smooth wood surface. He withdraws it from inside with a strange sort of reference, transfixed as the silver stretch of metal flips out with a faint sound that quickens his already rapid pulse.

He chances another glance toward the door. No one knocks. He listens intently for the telltale shuffling of feet, the cursing of bodies laid almost haphazardly across the floor getting kicked by someone relocating in the middle of the night. There's nothing.

He meticulously rolls his left sleeve up less than an inch at a time. He smooths out each fold until it's perfect. He flexes his fingers, watches in fascination at the undulation of muscles in his forearm and wrist and hand.

He closes his eyes and listens. Silence – and not just outside. He's not there. He's not plucking at his strings, controlling him, whispering sweet seductions for a better world that can never be in his ear. He's not there. He's alone. He's not there. It's just him. Just him in this bathroom, flirting with a steel switchblade he shouldn't have. Maybe this isn't necessary. Maybe he doesn't have to go to these lengths to keep Him out. Maybe he can ask for help.

But if he does that, they'll kill him. No questions asked. No hesitations. And dying hurts. He, of all people, knows that – knows the full-body, agonizing _burn_ , the waves of agony radiating from his side. Barely a poke, but it hurt _so much_.

Their faces. Gods, their horrified, grief-stricken faces. Annabeth. Grover. Percy. They couldn't believe their eyes, couldn't believe this twist in fate, couldn't believe how much loss of life had to come before it ended.

It couldn't happen again. He knows that. He _can't risk it_.

His skin indents from the edge. He sucks in a deep breath. "You deserve this," he hears himself hiss through gritted teeth. His hand trembles even more. A fierce sort of anger catches light in his chest. " _You deserve it._ "

His hand slips. There's a splash of crimson, a gasp, and relief. And still – silence.

Luke Castellan presses toilet paper against his forearm before lifting his head to gaze into the streaky mirror hung above the porcelain sink.

His eyes are blue.

(He thinks they look gold.)

* * *

Across the continent, the Caldecott Tunnel roars with passing cars. Robin Blakeley and Lara Denman try to stay awake with a game of _I Spy_. Blakeley jabs her ex-girlfriend in the leg when she notices her slumping against the wall.

"Hey!" she hisses. "Stay alert! Do you want Somnus to smite you for falling asleep on the job?"

Denman scrambles back to attention, fumbling with her spear like she stars in a slapstick comedy rather than serves a distinguished military force. "Well, sue me! It's boring out here. _Nothing is happening_." She huffs, then perks up. "Bet you I can run up to that coffee shop out on College Avenue and panhandle some coffees off gullible shoppers before anyone notices I'm gone."

Blakeley stares at her, unamused. "See, Lar? _This_ is why we broke up. It's like your one true purpose in life is to be as irresponsible and reckless as you possibly can be!"

"And it's like _your_ one true purpose is to scratch the ass crack of every Legion official you can until you're given heaps of responsibility that will _murder your individuality_!" Denman roars without thinking.

Blakeley shrieks, shoving Denman. " _Gods_ , you're so _obsessed_ with your philosophical bullshit! The Legion doesn't want to _assimilate_ you! We're not the fucking Borg!"

"Do you pay _any_ attention?" Denman throws down her spear. "Every _single_ one of us goes through this horrific, _traumatic_ trial with Lupa and her pack before we even – "

"Jumping Jupiter's ball sack, Lara!" Blakeley tears a hand through her spiky pixie cut. "Lupa _prepares us_ for the Legion. It's – "

"It's batshit!" Denman interjects. "Literal _children_ , Robby! Little _fucking_ kids, and what do we do with them? Send them to school? Teach them to respect each other, to respect themselves, to follow their dreams?" Denman spins in place, throwing her hands high into the air with a sardonic, bounding laugh. " _No_! We dress them up in armor heavier than their entire _fucking_ body, shove sharp, deadly weapons at them, and order them to march in perfect formation!"

"What else do you _want_ , Lara?" Blakeley scoffs, shaking her head. "Out _there_ " – she thrusts an arm toward the street of rushing cars disappearing into the tunnel – "are more monsters than we can survive! Our entire _existences_ are a fight!"

"Yeah!" Denman screeches. "A fight against things _our own fucking parents created to prove a point_!" Her chest heaves, Blakeley staring at her with a dull sort of horror. She shakes her head, slumping back against the wall. "I just… _fuck_ , Robby. All I want is to live a kinda normal life, and instead, I'm…I'm getting conscripted into this strait-laced army with way too many requirements and rules and constraints and – gods, Robby, I just want a break."

"What would you rather?" Blakeley demands. "It…the gods are our _family_. If we didn't have the parents and grandparents and shit we do, we'd be – you know what? No. We wouldn't _be_ anything. We wouldn't exist!"

"And what a blessing that would be!" Denman shrieks, then freezes, chest heaving while she locks eyes with her ex – and her closest friend.

But before Blakeley can produce a response, the nearby chain-link fence separating the quaint, Berkeleyan neighborhood from the busy freeway explodes.

* * *

Mortals will be utter fools no matter the history, the Crooked One muses from his dark home in the depths of his _dearest_ stepfather's realm, scattered figments coating the upper world with an omniscient yet ineffectual presence. They are little more than dumb rats scurrying around their mazes, willing to prostrate themselves if it meant higher beings might grant them a sliver of cheese as compensation for lifetimes filled with misery and tragedy.

Then again, there's little he can say for most _immortals_ – ignorant fools, scuttling about without granting a second's consideration to the eerie shift in the air. His undeserving progeny are laughable as always, reenacting histories that already ended in disaster the first and second times they played out – yet there the Olympians twitter about on their gilded thrones, convinced the outcome might change this time.

It's absurd. Utterly, dismally, pathetically absurd – and the Crooked One is among the few aware of the way everything has changed.

He bears fuzzy, incomplete memories from _Then_ – a time that might have once been summarized by history books reserved among Olympian kind, a tremendous war that lost them many lives and almost brought low the great empire until their great, noble, fallen hero pierced his side with a sentimental dagger. Scattered remnants remain within his consciousness – noteworthy events, techniques, tactics. Moreover, he knows where his meticulous plans went awry – his miscalculations, his critical missteps.

True – it might be easiest to puppet someone as ruthless as he – a demigod capable of performing merciless acts without pause for morality, duty, or philosophy. Yet he finds an odd caveat to that – while ruthless souls are less likely to violate his plans, they also fail to inspire trust in others. Worst yet, the more ruthless they are, the more likely it is they attempt to break away from his control, wreak their own unique breeds of havoc without obeying his commands.

So, no. No, he needs a true hero – one of pure heart, driven by a pursuit of justice they perceive absent in the world order as it stands. A righteous champion, whose morality might be tinged with grey but still stands strong as _noble_ , _kind_ , _compassionate_.

Bitterness, the Crooked One discovers, is a potent drug. Addictive in that way that once it sinks its teeth into you – even the briefest, most painless nip – you find yourself bound to it like nothing else. A common mortal reaction to various events. The more traumas that leave holes in one's otherwise pure soul, the easier for the snake to slither up to their ear and whisper sweet nothings, loaded promises of a better world in which this bitterness need not be.

There is a distant time that will never be the Crooked One remembers, one in which textbooks are published, a revolutionary biography released when demigods flourish under a world order without myriads of grand conflicts to preoccupy them. It's too easy to picture its silvery cover, a caduceus pierced by a sword acting as a textile experience on the artistic surface.

 _The Noble Icarus: Luke Castellan's Righteous Fall from Grace_ , it reads. Beneath that is scrawled the author's name – _Diomedes Brice_. A pen-name for one Sara Masters – a legacy of Athena bearing no relation to Annabeth Chase nor any of her noteworthy siblings at the time of Luke Castellan's betrayal and subsequent siege upon those they served so steadfastly.

On the back reads: _Diomedes Brice digs deep into the complex psychology of one of the most renowned traitors of the Greco-Roman pantheon, exploring Luke Castellan's tragic childhood, his lifetime of loss, and his noble motivations for a better world led astray by a cruel, manipulative Titan Lord. Follow along on an emotional journey of an embittered visionary from birth to death and learn what drove him to ascend to such terrible heights in pursuit of a utopic end._

The book delves into Luke Castellan's psychology, dissecting his every thought until he's little more than a series of numbers. The conclusion? Luke Castellan was a sweet, gullible hero who meant the best but could never have hoped to resist the compulsions of the Crooked One. It could have happened to anyone – anyone whose mother had failed to take on the Oracle shortly after her son's birth, whose father was an incompetent patron of thieves, and whose childhood love died, was revived, and promptly swore herself to a lifetime of mystical maidenhood, that is.

It's laughable – another hollow attempt by hollow people to pretend the right pressures will not drive _anyone_ – even their noblest, kindest, _greatest_ heroes – toward measures others shudder at.

No, the Crooked One knows – demigods are pressure cookers, each one. They acquire a litany of stresses, traumas, and fears. It's a recipe, really – measured dashes of every psychological blemish needed, all in moderation, all ordered just the right way. If you manage just the right balance – there you have it. The perfect, inspirational, tragic figure to mourn after the last war cries have faded out.

At first, yes – it was Luke Castellan. Terrorized by an unstable mother prone to magical fits because of a ritual gone wrong, chased out on the street. The fire of Thalia Grace could only consume him, and so he huddled into its warmth – until he watched her turn into a tree to save his life, reduced to little more than a camp legend forgetful of the girl behind the myth. Shamed by an empty quest issued by an inept father attempting to pacify the ire of a son he already knew destined for tragedy.

But when dearest uncle Aeon shredded the perceptual linearity of time per the request of darling mother Gaea, that changed. Oh, as ruthless as Mother is, the Crooked One knows she cannot strategize very well. She's a force of nature, not a calculative tyrant lord.

So now, Luke Castellan renounces him – or he will, the Crooked One predicts, waiting for the inevitable moment to strike while searching minds of disgruntled half-bloods everywhere for that first seed of displeasure. He finds too many possibilities, yet none of them stand out to him – until.

Gabriel Ugliano is found dead in his bathtub by his wife of nine years, Sally Jackson. Beside him is a suicide note. The case is cut and dry, police determine, and without the widow campaigning for further investigation, he is cremated and given a tasteful wake few attend. Half of his poker buddies, his employer, and his widow, who plans the whole event in a numb, unbelieving daze.

No one understands. When did Gabe ever express sadness? When did he ever pause to contemplate deeper life meanings or consider the heinousness of his behavior toward others? Why did he never apologize if he felt so lost as to take his life in the middle of the night?

They didn't know him as well as they thought, they reason, and thus they begin to move on with their lives.

Gullible, gullible, _silly_ fools – these ants, these rats scurrying about in their cages. Had there been an autopsy, the medical examiner would have discovered a disproportionate amount of water in Gabriel Ugliano's lungs. They would have determined cause of death to be a suspicious drowning concurrent with victims of the sea – especially when they tested the water and found it to have far too-high concentrations of salt.

It was a masterful plan. A beautifully forged suicide note, charged with all the sincerity of a man who questions his own humanity, twisted to apply to another whose actions bore no basis in a tormented psyche. Investigators did not question the few misspellings on the letter. Gabriel Ugliano never graduated high school. Why would he know how to spell?

No one would dare consider the twelve-year-old tucked safely into his bed at a boarding school his mother sent him to. He's _twelve_.

Except he's not.

And so, Luke Castellan sits alone with his thoughts and the Crooked One finds a new puppet to seduce. He slithers up to his ear while he lays awake, haunted by images of a time he intends never to let come again, and the Crooked One whispers, _My sources tell me you hate the gods._

* * *

The Fates measure new strips of yarn without consideration for the ones measured out before – the ones cut short, the ones stretching longer than expected, the ones that can never achieve their full potential now before it is finished. Servants of fate do not waste energy on regret; thus, they are uncaring as they prepare a blue length of string with too little time remaining and wait.

And wait.

And wait…

* * *

_end._


	10. Afterword

**widows & thieves**

_part I of tragedies & time_

* * *

* * *

THANK YOU ALL FOR READING AND SUPPORTING THIS STORY.

I am very, very proud of this introduction into my dark take on the time-travel trope. Your theories breathed life into my lungs. And please, if you would be so kind as to let me know your thoughts on this story as a whole, leave a comment below.

Now then: there is _absolutely_ more of this to come. It just might take longer to reach you than any of us would like.

The sequel to this – _legions & roots _– ended up spanning more time (and covering more divergences from canon) than anticipated. Furthermore, it proves more difficult to draft than this one for several reasons, among which being the _obscene_ amounts of research necessary for a piece of its multi-timeline to make sense. (The military outfit described in _The Son of Neptune_ would not function, end of story, so I must now undergo the task of filling in the blanks and somehow making it _somewhat_ canon-friendly. What on Earth have I done to myself?)

You also have the fact I am rewriting far more _The Forgotten Fear_ – now _The Goddess' Gambit_ – than I expected to. Entire chapters are getting inserted, preexisting chapters completely overhauled, and mechanics of the universe _itself_ revised. I've been chipping away at it for months now, and I haven't even reached the break into two. I want to focus on finishing, editing, and releasing that before I mess too hard with the next part of this series.

That being said, if it ends up completed and edited before _The Goddess' Gambit,_ then I will adjust things then. I am nothing if not a slave to the whims of my creativity.

To tide you guys over, I'll include the (very brief) synopsis of _legions & roots_, as well as an excerpt from it.

* * *

**legions & roots**

_part II of tragedies & time_

* * *

* * *

Leo Valdez joins the Twelfth Legion at eleven-years-old, but Thalia's pine tree is still poisoned on Half-Blood Hill. History is more malleable than anticipated.

* * *

Trigger Warnings (for this excerpt): None.

* * *

JASON ARRIVES AT THE _PRAETORIA_ TO FIND HIS SUPERIORS RESTRAINING THEMSELVES FROM MURDER.

At least, judging by the bulging veins in Legate Ivers' forehead and Tribune Steensen's eye twitch, it's taking every ounce of self-control in their bodies not to lunge across the war table to wring the throat of the wiry, underfed boy before them. Either in testament to his fearlessness or his obliviousness, however, he continues his tirade at a dizzying speed.

" – I'm like, 'whoa!' 'Cuz, y'know, bunch of fucking _wolves_ come out of nowhere, it's like, _the fuck_? But then Lupa's already going _on_ and _on_ about _duty_ and shit, and the crazy bitch _lunges at me_ when I start dozing off – y'know, like ya do – and – "

Jason chokes and knocks with his politest haste. He doubts insulting the she-wolf will improve the perspective recruit's chances.

The boy whirls on him, his oblivious hyperactivity from a moment earlier forgotten with his hand hidden in his jeans pocket, and Jason slips into stance with the undulating hilt of his standard gladius pressing into his palm. The atmosphere between them stretches taut in the seconds to come – the boy, with wild, dilated eyes, and Jason, torn between his natural concern and his learned caution – while they assess each other.

Legate Ivers and Tribune Steensen watch the standoff silently, and Jason knows they are evaluating Jason and this newcomer even as they evaluate each other. Will this boy benefit the legion? their minds scream into the tension. Will Jason prove himself and kill him if he attacks?

Jason's heart hammers behind his ribs. _Don't make me kill a real person_ , he thinks. _Please don't make me hurt you._

Still, Jason can't help but notice the state the boy is in, even with the tension building and his heart racing from dread. The newcomer's clothes hang from his too-thin frame like drapes, slashed, ripped, and _burned_ \- a lot, almost like he ran through a blazing house fire. Jason rationalizes that he might well have, considering how treacherous life beyond camp boundaries tend to be in the best times, which these are not. Jason can't see any burns on him - just scrapes and bruises - but he might have received enough unicorn draught or ambrosia to heal the worst of his injuries. 

Something strange suddenly overtakes the fierce attentiveness bright across the boy's elfish features. His eyelids flutter and he relaxes – but only somewhat. "Sor…ry," the boy says, elongating the two syllables so much, they sound like their own two words. "Guess, y'know…Lupa's got me paranoid."

Jason frowns at that. It's true that brand-new perspectives tend to arrive even jumpier than most seasoned veterans, but _paranoid_ pushes it a bit. There is a considerable difference between sharper reflexes and leaping to the conclusion that you'll be forced to fight to death.

Then again, this boy is the first perspective recruit to arrive in over a year. Maybe the outside world's grown more dangerous recently.

The boy still watches Jason warily, though Jason can't tell why. He lets his arm hang by his side, relaxed away from his gladius, in hopes that might reassure him. It doesn't. The boy seems to grow jittery in that time, though, shifting without relaxing any more.

Legate Ivers clears his throat and stands. "Tesserarius Grace," he says, motioning at the boy, who freezes at his words, "I want you to meet Leo Valdez, son of Vulcan. Should the auguries be favorable, he will join the legion at muster tomorrow morning."

Jason smiles in what he hopes to be a friendly way, although the pure awe on Leo's face doesn't falter. He gulps. Did Lupa tell him about Jason? He hopes not. That would be embarrassing. He can't live up to the stories people tell about him.

He holds out a hand. "Hi," he says, but Leo just gapes. "I'm Jason. Grace. I'm Jason Grace." Jason glances toward Legate Ivers, whose eyes narrow, then relax.

That _does_ alleviate the awe on the boy's face. It looks closer to concern now. He clasps his hand then, and Jason feels something strange in contact – something that almost feels like _family_. "It's nice to meet you, Jason," Leo says, then breaks into the most expansive smile Jason's seen in his entire life, all teeth and sparkling eyes. "Why don't Romans like algebra?"

Jason blinks. "Uh…" He glances toward Legate Ivers and Tribune Steensen, who both look as bewildered by the weird question as he feels. "I mean, we all tend to have this thing called dyscalculia, and – "

"Because X is always ten!"


End file.
